Maladjustment

If moments ticking for poetic: bullshit

can lie to sleep each night: searching for another

warm body to jostle close to: fury swimming against

blasé tears crying: children playing dangerously close

a busy road: every time someone loses a rubber ball down

the blaring street of: screaming horns, another little

body runs toward the bouncing red sun: and hits the pavement,

shocked and weary: careless mothers watched passively

as: they lose another part of themselves

but this routine is a cycle that circles again and again:

along the same people: who never seem to sleep, relying on their

hell-crafted energy drinks, like crack for people who say that they

don’t rely on crack: like coffee: maybe words can shine brightly once more

in the dim world of forever: because forever doesn’t necessarily mean

forever, it only means: maybe some other day, tomorrow, a week from now: an

incessant future of unknowns: and yesterday doesn’t mean that

something happened exactly the day before: because minds work like screws: screws can

screw us up in the heads, making seconds tick like minutes and minutes like seconds

and days like years and years like days: so

necessarily, today really isn’t today and tomorrow

isn’t tomorrow: the mindless babble of: is now the now that we used to believe

in then what about the we or the us: to which we all hung desperately to

belying the last cling-clang bell of doom announcing: last poetic words written:

in the last dead and dying bloodied sunset:

of which no one takes notice.

(A/N: Fictionpress won't let me type my poem in my original format... how I hate it so.