When buzzing silence is the only sort
of music my care-weary ear can stand,
and I become a hairy, pus-filled wart
that shames the muse's lovely powdered hand-
When walls remove me from the pressing crowd,
suppress me with their invisible load,
my hands become too big, my voice too loud,
I sit lost on dusty foreign roads
friendless, devoid of meaning, all drawn in
from contact needed from those I repell
because I feel boorish, painfully thin,
and on my magnified faults I must dwell-
These times I yearn for you to save me, you
can soothe this pain, and help me make it through. |
