The Diatribe

Time is nobody's bitch,

and often anybody's whore.

Caged and tormented like a medieval slave,

and smothered by a million woes,

I lived a week sulking alone.

With sullen eyes I went to work,

in silences elongated by a native pain,

in melodies converted into dirges,

I abused the fuck out of myself,

to nobody's bother.

I was a loner.

A loser. A bastard.

I was the last moment before the sunrise,

waiting for the last tear in my languid eyes.

I was suffocated like a Jew in Warsaw,

and split like two ends of hair,

dissolved in a time-bound misery,

that perhaps, time could only bear.

I hit the walls but whom to blame?

I banged the keyboard but whom to blame?

Blame it on the bastard of the night,

Blame it on my dullness.

Blame it all on her laconic eyes.

Blame it on my shameful self.

Blame it on the reciprocal mistakes,

and on the smiles we did not share,

and on the love that left me alone.

Blame it and just blame it,

and blame more!

This is a blame-game,

and melancholy galore.

No rose blossoms, in this rhyme

no star shines and no moonlight spread,

For this is a diatribe, my love,

and not a fucking serenade.