Poem: I Hope You Don't Worry

I sit alone in my four walls: Writing as the last resort.
Ear too bloody; accidents happen while sober too.
Imagining years of loneliness,
getting dirtier and filthier, more soiled and putrid.
Feeling the noose of Self-Pity
closing around my brain and heart.
Some part of me saying that
"I've been here before,
that tomorrow will be better",
then I will be here, again.

But my hand hurts, as I hold this pen,
which hasn't happened before.
I'm getting older,
my body is falling apart too soon.
If I want to stay a writer,
I'll have to start typing,
or getting bigger paper
and pen.

"It's not fair," I think again.
Just as I used to say to my Father,
as he was beating me.
"Life isn't fair," he'd yell,
and hit me again harder.
I disagreed with him, then,
but the older I get,
the more I agree.
I think I see his point.
As my body begins to fall apart.
As the whole World seems to shit it's pants with
Wars, Riots, Oil-Spills, and Etc.
My Father was right,
and maybe if I'd understood him then,
I could have been more selfish growing up;
more heartless and greedy.
Taken more for myself,
hurting others in the process;
The Law of the World.
"Fuck 'em all, as long as I get My Cut."

Even as I write it now I know,
my sensitive heart could never have gone that way.
For all the riches in the World I could not Rape an Innocent.
Does this mean I'm meant for the Lonely Poverty I endure?
Soul Disposition points towards "Yes."
The sooner I accept it the better.

In Jails I heard the never-ending banter
of Gangsters and Thieves, the Takers of Advantage.
Listening with curiosity, I always knew,
I could never have been one.
A silent Killer, perhaps, a Hit-Man, maybe.
But there are far less of those jobs
than the movies would have us believe.
I tried selling drugs, but I was too fair to the Addicts,
more compassion, than Lust for Money.
I tried working for a Mega-Corporation, or two,
but I had no Will to pass on blame,
point the finger, cover my ass.
Just wanted to do my job.
Never back-biting, nor butt-kissing;
Promotion was not my Destiny, there.
Just a permanent Corporate Cubicle,
at best,
being shit on by an endless procession
of ladder-climbing Management,
who do nothing but climb.
I even tried Academia,
my dreams of the Ivory Tower.
But I had not the Will to back-stab fellow Scientists,
grubbing and scrounging, rumor-mongering and
Character Assassination; These Traits I would not learn.
All to sweep up the ever fewer Grants
that all Serious Academics need to survive...

*Sigh*

Besides "homelessness" I could not find a
non-competitive field,
though sometimes the homeless compete more than any.
Dreams of being
a Poet, a Writer, an Artist...
Do you know what it takes to get Recognized today?
With the World of Five Billion
and The Internet for Us all?
Everyone clambering for their Art
to be Famous?

Forget it.
Now, and in the End:
I write for myself.
To purge, to vomit, to excrete
my Pain out.
And maybe entertain
a few others who happen by.
Good Luck,
whoever you are.
I hope you don't worry,
as much as I do.