Damaged Goods

rolling over in burnt blankets of mistakes & seething at the mere mention of the name that echoes most recently through the maddened mind like a gong being dragged through a city street chained to the tail-end of a 4x4 that has no particular place to go. rotting in the bowl with mold all furry, being torn apart by fruit flies & other insects making new condos & apartments in the heart & where does it end? as the wreckage piles up like old toys in the garage & all the animals from the forest come in to make themselves at home, much like the flies & insects in the fruit bowl, it suddenly seems like everything alive is having more fun than the thinker that is presently thinking. pus forming in the infected cuts & the bruises get bandaged again & as one party runs clear out through the field away from the other, another connection is eradicated & another individual gets one more notch towards a lifelong complex. the feeling that one is not good enough & that one will never be good enough & that one doesn’t deserve to be happy & therefore one begins to learn to hate happiness & then one begins to hate others who are happy & then one begins to die inside watching them parade around the world (as if they are completely untouchable & nothing can happen to them) & then one is dead inside.