WHAT WOULD I BE?
(my life as a drone, so many years on)
I am not my own best, always falling short. In
my ways, I amount to a Delmore Schwartz, running
between cars, maybe, raggedly demented, never up to
promise, not having reached potential - crazed, cranky,
and gone. I have to say I'm sorry for that; bad scene, yeah.
But, why? I don't know, can't say I know, and won't pretend
it's so. Wasn't drugs nor alcohol - I was always too stupid
for that, and lived my live as a slave instead. Doing what
people said, living like a drudge beneath the stupid heels of
a workaday boss, a scene of loss, of stasis, of patience and
waiting. Of doing, and shouting out, I was more afraid of
the hurting, the constant God-damned pain. Six hundred
bucks a week for peeing in a gutter and listening to shits.
Oh but I was the wiser fool - they all go home to live with
themselves, while I went home to live with someone else.
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