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Don't ask

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Why do I shutter?
Why do I fall?
Where is my hairbrush?
Why am I tall?

Why do my fingers
each have one nail,
and my persona
constantly fail?

If I sing loudly
verse 2 and 3,
might I get noticed?
Look, there's a tree!

People around me,
so they would claim,
seem to have purpose
seem to have aim,

seem very grounded -
solid as rocks!
I lack direction
down to my socks.

Perhaps they are weak,
more so than I.
They're playing a game,
living a lie.

If this is valid
show me a sign.
4 squared is 16,
3 squared is 9.

Something here tells me
I'm not alone
here on this bookshelf
thin as a bone.

I seem the thinest,
of those my age,
for those who read me,
turning each page.

Content is lacking,
pictures are dull.
It's hard to let them
under my skull.

Yet I know there's more,
so I've been told,
than this book's cover.
It's getting cold.

I'll shut the window,
then I'll warm up,
and drink some coffee
out of a cup.

Okay I'm back now.
Where were we then?
Oh yes, we're peeking
under my skin.

I can't believe that
you are still here -
you must be idle
or drunk on beer.

Why does it matter
if I cannot
see any order
to all this lot?

People are starving,
evils abound.
Whilst we are stuck here,
twisting around.

I'm sad I wrote this,
wasted your time.
Still aren't you pleased that
I made it rhyme?

© 2001 (17 may) john r. chase

...meanwhile, Aunt Martha, having taken a tramp through the woods, lies in a ditch on the edge of town...