tired

Tired again.

I wrote that, 

and my dry lips started bleeding.

I'm dry, tired and dry.

The voices continue their Solzhenitsyn trip.

"That's good Solzhenitsyn," or

"that's bad Solzhenitsyn,"

as if they were talking about drugs.

I talked to a friend on the street.

She's flying out of the Earth's orbit.

She's lost touch with her kids.

She's a small-fry.

The other time I saw her,

her two front teeth were knocked out.

When I first met her, she was soft.

Now she's hard, except for her insides.

And her mind is that of child's.

And she's not really fully here anymore.

And I wanted to sob when I sat with her.

Instead I just said,

"Make yourself happy. You deserve it."

And walked away.

And the goddam voices have their trips.

Thosemutherfuckers.

I'm tired.

God save us from those bastards

until they finally go to their place.