watching the clock on sunday

So often we tell ourselves the stories

The world will scream back

So often we try the hopeless struggle 

Against the jacket

So often, the deafening of the deafening 

And I write like this because I’m a coward

Because I can’t tell myself those things

Anymore

That the world doesn't scream back because 

It just can’t hear what I’m trying to say

They’ve all heard this before

They’ve said it themselves

And what is all this the deadening of the body

And what is all this the hand that weighs like ten

So often I tell myself the stories

That this is just another

And that it will be over any day now