In the children's section
Of any department store,
They sell cribs
That are marketed to adults
As coffins.
This is because,
In the future
Every housewife
Will be ******
By a medicated boner.
Each thrust
Patterned with the second-hand
Of a ticking clock.
Reminding them
Of how beauty correlates
With time.
In the mornings
Recognize the smell of exhaust
As coffee.
Inhale the taste of dawn
Through a partial space
Between glass and metal.
Just enough to let life know
I am still here,
Breathing.
That's what it is.
That's what all this trying is for.
I was raised to believe suicide a sin.
That human relationships matter
Because loneliness and solitude are torture.
Because “sharing is caring.”
But I have suffered
From meeting them.
From knowing them.
I am them.
For right now,
Someone is cursing my name
While indulging a masturbation fantasy.
Or,
That's my ego
Convincing me
That I fit-in.
I read in the paper
That it's
Dress Up Night.
Each street lamp
Is a spotlight
For a citizen.
A three second chance
To showcase the worth
Of vanity's sexiest exploitation.
We've all mastered the skill
Of avoiding eye-contact
With strangers.
The only reason the streetlamps are there
Is to prevent rapes.
A.j. Binash
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-people-above-my-bedroom-are-having-sex/
