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Michael McGuire
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An Outsider on the Inside
Committed by the standing traits of my being,
A set of eyes that do more looking than seeing,
A component expatriate of my routine route, Aspiring minions block the light of my doubt,
My nerve endings strain to feed the soul of my nerves,
My will is whored for every John it serves,
This makeshift-machine creates its own fuel,
Its pragmatic dogma is dogmatically cruel.
Emotionally derelict with an acumen for aching, Embarrassed at your own pain,
Weak kneed Atlas with a penchant for breaking, Weathered by your own rain.
Luxuriating in the self-silence of my apathy, Pondering the wholesale collapse of the death of me,
Schools of thought and dropouts-divine,
Know the water is still the kiss on the lips of the wine,
Though a parcel of this automated urge,
A distinctive protagonist in the plot of this scourge,
The histrionics of the sensational age, Just serve to stoke and vivify my rage.
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The habitual numbness and its latent effects, Politeness of a stranger's ego,
Anomaly so subtle no one inspects,
The poetics of what you don't know.
With the compressed dynamics of an outsider on the inside,
I walk the ways of the world with only one place to hide,
Escape is just a hollow verb; void of conjugation, So leaving its subject obsessed in mental masturbation,
And the days are left stacked in some homunculus pile,
I suffer the death of my elders the live long while, Unable to write the definitive study my woe, Illusory persona and requisite lies mask my simple soul.
As time is transplanted from motion to moment,
I the observer from the moving train; outpace my own salvation,
And in seeking purgation in the obtuse verse of my being,
I flounder in the distance created by my dependance.
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