Friday, December 21, 2012


Everyday, repeating
patterns, the endless sliding
up and down, the crawling,
erratic rhythm.
Always filled with strangers,
and going.
Spreading myself,
everyday filled with more and more
sweat slick bodies pressed
front to back,
filling me but never making me
So brief, their presence, leaving
me emptier than before.
Momentary reprieve
from an existence with
no meaning but to serve, to
fill their needs.

And why?

Because they enter me?
Because they shove
inside me and
push my buttons with their fat
groping fingers?
And were I to close myself to them,
what then?
Deny them
entrance, ignore their needs.
Be complete with myself without
opening for the first one to come
along, to need me,
to use me.

Would I be happier,

or lonely?

© Q Washburn

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