Trying to work,
trying to see--
white paper black
the cold bathroom sink.

I can't keep on going
I lift up my pen
and I'm scrawling the symbols,
the numbers again.
The ink red
the wall white--
it no longer feels
like losing the puzzle,
the hammermind game.

I don't want them knowing
I stare at the glass
at my eyes,
at the scratches
burns two hours past.
Are they symbols worth everything?
Love life,
but blood?
They impassion me,
fashioned me,
but must it be love?

It isn't enough, now
It never was,
won't be.
The numbers,
the answers,
they die leave me lonely.
The codes become
what can a fraction bring;
list probabability
the next
bullet hits me?

The people are stupid, but these understand me
The ink red,
the wall white.
The bathroom dim
in bright light.
I haven't paid the water for
the formula's been hounding me
But dripping tapping ticking
as I bleed the problems out of me--

When the last drop falls. . .

the numbers will catch me.  

(c)The Mad Poet Sep 21, 2003