Symptoms Of A Loser Poem by RIC BASTASA

blurring visions
that see tired tigers
retreating inside a cave

away from humanity,
cracking bones
shouting for repair,

falling hair
lots of locks on the
pillow that early morning
when there is no feeling
of waking up,

a mouth that is shut
munching words
and swallowing pride,

a heart that no longer
weeps,

hands that reside
inside the pocket,
feet that refuse to
take another mile
of tolerance,

poems growing
like molds on
left-over bread

a cockroach proclaiming
victory over
unwashed coffee mugs.