broke not broken

it's an old familiar feeling
the ache
the panic
of my very own
down to the last dime loneliness
been here
done it
more sickening times than
i'll admit

this feeling of abandonment
this self esteem battering battle
this sense of doom
laced with
an unknown guilt
and
a feeling of not
fitting

i'm
like a bad top on a lost bottle
as the walls close in

it's frightening
it is
i do not deny it
and
i do not deny my knowing
that i'll pull through
i always do
and
ohhh
i am sick of
just pulling through
as the phone lines groan to near
bursting
with the greedy calls of debtors
whos
minions
hate their lives
who are
the crossing guards of enterprise

my back aches
my mind a tempast
filled with
old feelings
of an un worthy life

it
drives me to busywork

i pray old prayers
eat too much
want means to escape
and
there is no portal
in sight
except the imaginings
of hope
that light of hope
manufactured from
loss
from the memory
of ease gone by
from
the dream of heaven
from
the posturing of
moonlight on
a typists hand
who
like sysiphis
rolling the stone of hope onto the page
finally gets to the end of his labor
only to
toss it
crumpled into
an overflowing
burning
basket

i sit
crosslegged
across from the tatooed man
who
rests with his hooka
dangling
like
an anchor
from his sleeping lips

all i can do is wait
all i can do is sing my song
here in this familiar darkness
into the soft cotton air
dank and echoless
knowing that
my personal
horton

will hear