The Human Condition

Last night I wrote a poem- made it angry at the world and called him male. I gave his body clothes three sizes too big, his soul a personality that begged me to stay awake and contemplate its meaning. I spelled the word “death” and he put up the hood of his sweatshirt to cover his head, he looked at the ground so I couldn't see his face. I scratched and tried all night to pull it off, but the draw string held tight. I pulled harder. I didn't give up until I saw his face. Turns out death has the face of a lonely man with empty sockets for eyes, big as two raw hearts that pump the blood from inside long after they are ripped from the chest where they used to live. Sometimes we want something we never should, but we don't know until we get it. I'm afraid of things that should not frighten, yet fearless in the face of all that should petrify. Nothing is as it should be- that's the human condition. I'm not so self-righteous to think I'm the only one with these fears that make shadow puppets on my walls at night from the light of the moon. Sometimes they play on my face and the shadows wake me up, but I whisper soothing things to myself and fall back to sleep, lest the shadows find out why I'm so scared. Nothing is as it should be- that's the human condition.