fiction and poetry

Generosity for Ounces of Madness

The morning lights do not dissolve for me.
I don’t know how you all do it,
It becomes a rain of a million unapologetic needles,
ruffling my hair, the scalp and the bored skull.
Damned, be they, Damned be the generosity for its alluring brightness.

These eyes have forgotten to shut down early.
The madness has been accumulating
ounce by ounce.
Like a cat ready to pounce with its warm toes
on the dead freezing body
to taste the cold with its tongue
in successive unforgiving licks.
The madness pounces in the morning.

I have become used to these never-ending work shifts,
by driving a dying car to a dying place,
in a dying body.
I have become used
to the half-baked bacon burgers,
to the caffeinated miseries.

There is no end to it.
There will never be.
Just a beginning exists.
Just a light that wrecks the day.

After every dooming night.
I got used to it.
I became generous
for the little ounces of madness,
to survive.



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