the watcher

it’s a bit macabre
perched and watching
i have a guardian but he’s no angel
these lives we lead
i’ve beaten around this bush for far too long
and i’m writing this at an odd hour
later than usual, around the time that
an uneasy feeling starts to set in
i know that i’m
two days old and one young
suppressed or out of balance there is something
trapped, hidden maybe
unsung
and lately these metaphors are
menacing me
haunting, taunting me
to create
a life unreal(or was it surreal)
somewhere to hide or
something to revere
and i almost remember
simpler times, longer days
spent in tenuous comfort
but now it seems that i’m nothing but a
glorified pillow for my cat
as he rests upon my chest
piercing eyes set, cold calculating
come and gone
i think he remembers
all those faces
mixed and matched
places
how did we get here
tempers tempered
nights spent racing in
and out of a sanctimonious stupor
and running in the wrong direction
always chasing the wrong ones
i wonder was it bad luck
or just stupidity?
an avatar of the self
he doesn’t pass judgment
but knows the answer
and he won’t tell me
damn that cat

 

 

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