Call That Life?

Call that living?

Call that life?

Lying there.

Low.

Low down.

In a basement of self-willed seclusion.

Staring at walls which imprison him.

He grinds teeth until alive with electric pain.

Then cuts his arms to rub out the misery.

He focuses on the pain’s strange beauty.

Each cut - an artist’s stroke on a flesh canvass.

The creation dribbles down to the floor.

Red is such a life-affirming colour!

He thinks others have a better deal.

He’s often right.

God has overlooked this man -

Hidden in a basement.

He looks up at the others - full of living.

How dare you laugh just because you live?

He'd pull the whole world down to his own level -

So as to interact on his own terms.

He's dragged his body through many lethargic days.

And over many insomniac nights.

And when outside, like a slug,

He leaves his slime on everyone.

The slime of his being

Is his proof -

Proof he hasn’t the gift of a real life.