Just another day.
I rise, purposely overlooking your empty
side of the bed, dress, and go outside to
get some air, when I notice the bright
morning sun glinting off shards of glass
from the neighbor's newly-broken out window

I walk closer to investigate: screen's torn
off and flung to the side of the vacant
house, window-glass gaping wide--
wasn't sure if anyone might still be inside

Thought maybe I should call the neighbors
to let them know,
but, then again, the world unfortunately
being what it is, maybe I didn't see anything--
maybe it's not even broken

I go back inside, leaving the front door and
curtains wide, pass the unpaid bills on the
kitchen counter and sit down, light a cigarette,
and start to think, wondering exactly at what
particular point in my life it was that I
stopped giving a shit


People say I spend too much time indoors,
that I'm too quiet,
that I keep to myself too much

and they tell me it isn't healthy,
that I should be outside more;
join the human race, instead of
holing up in my dungeon and writing
"twisted" poetry that they don't get...

but what they don't understand, is a long
time ago, I used to do just that; interact
with society--and that is exactly why I now
prefer seclusion, for I truly believe that
all the textbook psychopaths are running free,
while the authentic ones prefer to stay indoors;
and, if the meek really shall
inherit the earth someday

I intend to reap a fortune.


Sometimes I wonder about
the strange things that go through my head;
things almost at the lunatic level

It disturbs me how deep I can get.
Makes for some interesting writing, though

At least I don't go around murdering people,
but I think about it
oh, how I think about it

If I did kill,
if I got it all out of my system,
I'd probably write boring poetry;
shit that has to do with sunsets
and teardrops
and cute little kittens

As it is,
I think I'm much better off this way.
Then again,
if I ever do run off
a pretty little sonnet sometime,
it's a sure bet
that if you ever hear footsteps
trailing you some dark night

they're bound to be mine

Cynthia Ruth Lewis:
I'm 38, having written poetry for the past 17 years. Currently back in the publishing
world after having taken a 2 year hiatus due to creative apathy and temporary insanity--
which, actually may have enhanced my writing. It has certainly enhanced my weirdness.

2005 Underground Voices