Becoming Weary

Originally handwritten August 26th, 2015 

I have become weary of my own intent.
More so than the intent of these intrusive spectators. 

These ludicrous attempts of mine to convince. 

Spoons in gaping mouths, ravenous for more then I have to provide.

I know this now, I know it keenly. 
Yet they seem oblivious to my insight which gives me a slight advantage.

So, while exercizing my toungue in humbled lingual trivialities,
I decided to stop and listen to the sounds of the song that remained unsung.

Just who's mouth exactly are my spoons entering and why?

 I certainly have no need of pseudo companionship. 

I am full to the point of nausea with that sort of futility, a while now.

It is obvious they are not. 

Why must there be incessant chatter of ancient atrocities followed by the bestial orifice anticipating a rebuttal?

I admit I do believe what they truly crave is some kind of nakedness. 

What they ignore is it's present remoteness; It only comes now in stringing my words together in written form, ambiguous at best. 

Their insulting attempts a double edged sword are almost laughable, but not entirely; I'd foreseen this and dodged it, somewhat gracefully.

No, this cordial questioning is contrived and unwelcome. 
This is not a friendly concern but something else entirely. 

This is vulgar and it is stark. 

It reeks of putrid ooze leaking from beneath dumpster,

Feels of grime that's been accumulating beneath fingernails;

Bedding deeper.

Those angry hands. 

Noxious intent.
Malice.
 Jealousy.
It is the scent of fear.

I want nothing to do with their famine.

What they seek no longer grows here in my mind. 

Now then, where were we my dear acquaintance? 
To feed you what you really desire?
Oh, is that so?  
Apologies. I seem to be fresh outta that.

Mary Catherine, Cowardice Queen