POST 126

we lead ourselves a merry chase.

over hill, over dale, most every place

and places we never should.

we pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off,

ready for another round with life.

and to be assured; life has plenty of ammo.

and life never, ever loses. 

loss of one's composure

post traumatic stress issues 

psychologist to the rescue

trash talk, group of young folk

gathered on street corner;

what comes out of their mouths

would make a sailor take cover.

of nothing, nothing new; pick a decade,

any old decade; same old, same old.

nothing changes but for date and time;
and date and time never lie. 

a raging anger, so fucking intense,

simmers and simmers and simmers.

only relief from such misery:

must burn itself out. hopefully

before dire incidents occur.

have gone off deep end

more times than I care to remember. 

and have learned nothing from

this stimulating experience.

fear I am destined to continue 

this ridiculous exercise in futility 

until that day no one will bother

to rescue me from said deep end.

in most any medical waiting room, 
in most anywhere is these United States,
chances are good at least one
 of those waiting will be a hypochondriac.