Persisting Scramble

I guess you can not be like me, and lord knows I can never be like you,
Loneliness beyond virtual strikes cold, empty, so we do what we do.
Weld on the costume I have to carry, plastic smiles and context unknown,
For every step of growth, every forward advance, still on our own.

I can say I don’t care,
Empty home, seldom shown,
The scars from the tear,
Hollow silent halls, frustration falls,
Addicted to pain and sorrow,
Sugar and spice burned Christ,
What will you let me borrow?

Stonewalled by the scent and the old attitudes,
In the corner, forever the foreigner,
Heinlein’s stranger in much stranger platitudes,
Like lost Valentine, drenched in wine,
Milestones you sell me in busted media,
Rat hunger reaches pitch, click his switch,
So nice of you not to come, nice to not see ya.

I guess we are all just scrambling, searching, rambling,
For the world to ink us with its inept discount branding.
Tie me to those tracks or just forget the ticket let me climb aboard,
I know why in the end it is how it is, I will not whore like you’ve whored.
Thomas Spychalski

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