I sit in a room
Surrounded by papers
And steel letters
Attached to a silver typewriter
And no one knows I am in there
Except the squirrels
In the front yard
The people of average intelligence tell me
Writing is a lonely place
Of emotions and ideas
Hiding in the mind of a genius
And sometimes I wonder
When the three little men
In the white coats will arrive
It’s all a matter of discretionary anxieties
For the newspapers
And the black and white images
On the television
Shades down
Front door bell disconnected
Phone off the hook
Isolation breeds like prisoners
In a world war two nightmare
Beer cans and wine bottles
Line the table
Like soldiers in a battlefield of death
Anxieties run through me
Like a women
Getting an abortion
In an unqualified doctor’s office
The scalpel tears open life at the seams
And kills the creation of truth
And no one cares
Except the writer
My cat looks at me from across the room
I can tell
He thinks I’m crazy
Maybe I am
3 a.m. whores come and go
Like the blue wind
In the cavernous grotto of my mind
Fuck the world
With their propaganda
And their embryonic lies of manipulation
Deceit runs deep in the city streets
Dark and covered up by the aggressors
The world is finished
Its over
And nothing else matters
Except the next
Fucking
Poem..
Ken Riccio original poems ©
