Tuesday, September 3, 2013

Wither Into Yourself

Comes a time
Everything that’s going to happen
Has, and the rest is all repeats
Rehashes of the same old arguments
Reheated leftovers and it feels
Like you’re just going through the motions because
What else is there to do, really
You can’t drop out, though some do
You can’t just sit and do nothing, you’re not
That far gone yet. But still
The endless rehashing grows old
You laugh at the same old jokes
More out of habit than delight
Recite the same old lines
With slightly different inflections, in different voices
That all somehow still sound exactly like your voice
This is where I’m at, it’s not that bad
But it’s not that great, either
And I lack the imagination it would take
To think of some new thing to do, and new way to act
And anyway at this point it would feel false
Like I’m trying too hard, a middle aged man
In a toupee and a convertible, vaguely aware
That he looks ridiculous but driving too fast
And too desperately to care

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