Tired
He’s tired of himself sometimes,
tired of always being him,
thinking his thoughts,
feeling as he always does,
negotiating with his desires.
Inherently selfish, he’s nonetheless
not quite dull enough
to constantly overdose on himself
without feeling claustrophobic.
Boredom makes him curious
about the still-unexplored mysteries that lie
just on the other side of his own skin,
beyond the confines of his
unilateral relationship with the world.
He wants to stop his ears to the
lonely, masturbatory soliloquy in his head,
make an opening foray into otherness,
wade into emotions not his own,
thus, unawares, taking the
first faltering step
towards an understanding
greater than himself.
He’s tired of himself sometimes,
and, with any luck,
he may yet find a capacity for love.
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