This World...

[bridgit]

This world is not for me,
None of these things are mine.
Every joy out weighed by factors
Too near the blade of sorrow's ragged edge.

Every open handed levity met,
With pious, ill-formed aspersions of
Threats really, threats of pm'd:
"psychosis"
"psychoticism"
"insane"
Pig latin'ed
"fuck you"(s)
And
"bitch!"

The studied distance.
The studied disconnect.
These votes against by proxy,
Somewhere over there.

There will therefore be no fade to black.
No credits to roll in that there are none.
No more song birds with same-wise 'secrets',
Coming down upon my fingers my palms singing,
With 'the secrets' they told me when,
I was lonely and there were no others...

When I wondered how deep my sadness
When then there were a shooting star,
So wonder filled.
And a card from a loved one the very next day,
A Friend so very far away the warmth.
Or the wave and a smile from a stranger
In the cafe
Atop a favorite childhood song perhaps
Heard from afar more likely,
From the midst of a Birth Day party remembered,
The wisp of an aroma therapy where then
The ill-parcel filled with tears and lies intrudes instead,
Filled with mocking hurtful Valentines and ignorant laughing, no...
There is no warmth here.

It is done.
It is over.

All that is left is what remains.
So that even these remains they are not mine.
Not really.

This world is not for me.