Old Hat

Easy Way Out

It seems to me I write without much reaction these days And linger here because it's no worse than any other place To breathe my lot and wait with brief reflection, Whether for some success, or death, or any sudden Rush or swell of stressful interaction that may come. I know from example I can't please you or gain surcease, Not from here, not like this, No matter how I flatter or what's on my platter Or how I go on about it all, Though that's a failure of my own... I cannot even please myself that much— There's always self-abuse and mental disease is so entertaining, But that's old hat and socially it serves no use. It oddly barely keeps me to the form or bounds Of what's traditionally been pleasant even for only one. I write here now without restriction, But nothing much I tell. I say what's said without hard labor And recall with resignation close friends to whom I'd freely speak back then, But mostly now we shun each other and take the easy way out.