Into Madness


He gets up each morn, dresses in perfect clothes-
Clean, unmessed,
does his hair to perfection- he strives to look good
In the eyes of others, in the eyes of himself.

And what are you? You are the sort of person
That will not do his hair to perfection, only flatten it
So that it stays out of your eyes.
You wont keep your shoes clean,
Only that dull black.
You wear old clothes,
Messy, wrinkled, untidy.

You are on the dole, live in a pityful little flat
lost somewhere in a forgotten backstreet.
It is a one-roomed box, the shared bathroom,
The single window, the heavily bolted door.
Cold fluorescent lights flicker along the rustic hallways,
One, two- more?- windows broken, the winter chill flows on in.

You eat badly, when you do eat, that is.
Your skin is dry and cracked from malnutrition-
You are almost dead, but not quite.

Of course, you live alone now.
Maybe long ago there was a chance
With a friend- but that was long ago. 
You forgot about them and went off by yourself.
There was that little cat. Playful thing-
soft fur, irresistable bright eyes, playful paw-
But it was killed some time ago.
Or there’s that dying plant, brown leaves
starved from sun and water in its world
where no sun shines.

You have no respect for others,
You have no respect for yourself.
What are you? What is your purpose?

Leave me alone.