The Piecemeal Man (abmann) wrote,
The Piecemeal Man

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I have no hub, no niche,
no school of fish with which I swim.
My seclusion, fading quickly
as I smile and start liking
the people in my world, kills the sex in me.
I, like the two hauling a piano,
bash my head around the walls wondering why it hurts.
I am chided as I pass by bikers
and swift turners who know, undoubtedly,
that I am failing even as my rise reaches a marvelous

Cacophony: if I cannot answer my own dilemma,
I cannot expect absolution from the outside.
The void of hyperspace, filled with barren activities,
flushes me and remains me that my libido
can only impress those that care. I try,
wondering why I get no response as I build spoke
into my back. I cannot attach others without hands.
Colorful hair sings praises for what I started
but they are not intended for my ears. I remain
un-decidedly without comfort and I do not know why.
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