/lit/ - Literature

The Little Man

Observe his face:
a perpetual frown,
stained with contempt—
it is a perfected reflection
of all that he sees.

His soul
—programmed no differently than yours—
stays bent, compressed, trapped,
in a frame too small
to s t r e t c h,
to breath,
or flourish.
Unable to grow,
it only swells.

And when he sees her,
looking at him,
looking down at him,
he too looks down,
and sees the dirt.

In comes a familiar taste—
Bitter.
It twists his tongue
until only rage,
incandescent,
can anesthetize the pain.

Surely they can all see this?
It’s a thought that keeps his gaze
carefully averted,
forever.

Finding no relief,
he lies on the conveyor,
closes his eyes,
and drifts toward the terrible machine
that cuts things
much harder than bone.
It is atonement
for his sin of being born.

Again the latch clacks upon the rod that holds the latch of the gate that separates the garden from the patch of great worry inside me, I watch the path get soaked with the falling rain as my eyes well with tears that I know of the origin not. Untied shoes step one before each other my mind is a staring sentry absent of cause. Nowadays awake from a blank sleep with dread in my heart not thinking of anything other than my own worry and with no plan to change anything except the way I lean in my filthy sheets before I awake again pissing out the nights mistake and gulping warm water through my studio apartment spigot.