The Equilibrist

Dead,
and cold, and dry.
Hollow,
motionless, and grey,
sad.

Not just lonely,
but alone.
Whistling a happy tune in an empty mortuary,
carving a gravestone with my nails.
The bitter monotony brews into a sour poison,
as darkness blinds my sight,
folding my dreams in a tiny suitcase.

Like a drunk equilibrist
holding back tears,
suspended on the edge of my eyes.
Like a madman,
standing on the edge of a cliff.
Like an ugly vegetable at a grocery store,
like an empty garbage bag
like a fat beggar
like a communist with a lottery ticket
like a cripple with a bycicle
like a cancer patient in love
like a broken tv set
like a guitar with parkinson's disease
like a baby's coffin floating to a beach
like an open wound
like a deaf Beethoven
as I sit on a bench at this public park
chocking on my words
wishing I could just unzip myself in half
and let this love flow like sewage
down to the sea
that's how I feel when I look at you
knowing you'll never look at me.