out work the work out

a sad jester

realizes that we

spilling laughter like blood

and staring at them on the sole stage

are the fools

performing always

*

what is the point of happiness

if not to blunt you into the realization of loss

while the rest of the days will bleed boredom

from the tampon of unfilled functioning

an unpregnant moment of exhaustion and useless climax

where you make it to dinner

sloppy and sticky from a morning that missed night

and failed to remember why tomorrow came unendingly

to today

holding onto whatever dreams were there yesterday

which you sure were good and sweet

though you are tired and wet

from the cloudy haze of a schedule

where the weather says there won’t be any rain

but still you sweat

with nerves unknown to even your brain

who has never been a friend of yours anyways

for it always asks

what is the point

meanwhile

you drip you

into bed to dream of something else

beyond you