A Different Sort of Suffering

We like to wonder about what is to come
Because the unknown is thrilling
And the known is nothing but
Stale coffee and broken staplers
Every corner of my life has a dent in it
Or a pothole or a mud stain or
A dragon behind the door
With great fangs and the back arched
Waiting for things that haven't happened yet
Worrying about things that might not happen
And all these things are illusions
Delusions
Confusions
They're a different sort of suffering
Wondering what is to come
Is a self injected needle filled with
Blood from a dying pheasant
As the bird wonders if it should
Stray to the wolf's jaw or just wonder
How it would be like to be brave
(Or an idiot, you choose)
Like a horse with blinders on
And a flamethrower for a tail
I speed towards uncertainty
The hooves chaffed and the wings scorched
And the rider gone astray
Talking about the future
Only my demise is certain
And the rest is a brew
Of good days and better days
Days where I'm a princess
Days where I'm a brute
(Or anything in between the two)
Just thinking about it
Weakens
My
Mind
As I wait for the dragon
To burn a hole through the door
This is a different sort of suffering

Comments

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Olga's Poetry & Thoughts

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