Triste

The Delorian rests at the curb,
I am so far away,
So much the weaker in this,
The tire swing rocks in the rain,
My knuckles are showing white futility,
What was control?
When I was the child,
Impenetrable infant,
Resting in something else,
Than everyone else's feelings,
No knowledge of that first fruit,
Of her uncursable _____ eyes!
It wrenches,
Tears with abandon!
No, this is not living,
This is an end in all certain terms,
It is slow but it is there,
Idling away into the street,
Yes tears,
Streams of spent effort,
To hang myself,
On another's decisions,
Gas down,
It lurches forward,
I seek tree,
Post,
Ditch,
Anything to stop my head,
From hurting so Goddam much.