Pity me, Woe is me; How Fucked is I?
To carry the weight of the world.
1 billion obese souls and counting
with problems and issues and
they sit on my shoulders like hunched over children on bleachers
at your middle school little league game.
“Hey, pitcher pitcher pitcher,
Hummina hummina hummina.”
“Hey pitcher, pitcher. . . .Fuck You!”
“Fuck you? Fuck me? Hey, Fuck You!”
Harsh words from those that no longer inhabit a vessel.
Sit there dancing, prancing, and harassing.
Tormenting the confusion
Which grieves your face with anxiety,
Not unlike a hyperactive 3 year old
With a small bladder,
In the back seat,
Of a sedan,
On a trip,
Up the coast.
Let’s play chicken; let’s challenge the warden;
They say, and I guess that’s me.
Let’s consummate this after life, lascivious, love. . . . affair.
One geriatric, one pediatric; both dueling with switchblades
The phantasmal, visceral, viscous, violates my younger than you cheek.
How vain am I?
With clouds in my coffee
To have mirrored ceilings,
A California King,
No crown, nor scepter
But 600 thread count.
In a room that only holds
Off with all their heads
Leave mine intact please.
Well woe is me
Woooooooe is poor little old me
To carry the weight of a million starving children
On these poor shoulders.
How horrible is me to carry the weight
Of all the derelicts in Los Angeles who’ve shit on the side of
Spago, and Koi, and Katana, and others;
To then shit on the side of a
In Bloomfield, Kentuky and say:
“No, this isn’t for me.”
Ohhhh! To pontificate about that heavy feeling
Because the weight of me
Is weighing me down
"The weight of the world?"
"You wish you were that important."