EXHAUSTED

Exhausted

It’s not that we do not know how to love
It’s not that we suffer dysfunction
It’s not that we are obsessed with some
It’s simply hard to tread through garbage.

The piles of shit that lay at our feet
In which we wade knee-deep and daily
The piles of crap that make us need
A certain kind of grace to deal with it stately…

… well it just exhausts us, does it not?
Please call my hands, take me out of this rot.

Exhausted

We get committed so fast because of this
We move in together for reprieve
We focus on one whom we can’t resist
We leech on them, they let us bleed.

Until passion dissipates after honeymoon phase
Or the Host starts wasting away
The couple fights and never gets laid
The friend becomes foe, and bolts his way.

… well it just exhausts us, does it not?
Please call my hands, take me out of this rot.

Finding “true love” is about true luck.
And hopefully scoring regular sex!
You know it is more than a good fuck
When we stick around to simplify the complex.

Never have I been happier than today
Sitting naked in my piles of shit
Of family bullcrap, broken tools and decay
And (having had, and…) knowing what real love is.

It’s not that we are lonely here
It’s that we are getting weak
It’s that we are exhausted by the real fear
Of not finding what we seek.

And yet if I told you to look for a red bucket
In a pile of refuse in a garbage pit
Would you give up and go: “Ah, fuck it”
Or sort it, knowing exactly how to spot it?

If you do not know what you are looking for
How will you find it amidst the wreckage?
I’ve had men dumpster dive for me before
I have kissed them, dripping wretched stenches.

… well it just exhausts us, does it not?
Please call my hands, take me out of this rot.

(You dove deep inside me in that instant
Tell me: Did you find what you’ve been dying for
Diving between the legs of so many women
Looking for something, to settle our score?

And they ask me why I went where I went
I tell them “He supported: I wanted his tenderness, at last”
And she’ll remind me of my fine-tuned bent
To often pick up and attract ‘trash.’

But I laugh. I am exhausted by my imagination …
Just trying to create something kinda beautiful outta the mess, yeah?)

© Sylvie Hill 2014

Art: Juan Carlos Noria – dixon – “Exhausted”