Bad Poetry Thursday: "Never Behind in Smoke"

I struggle with the persistent whispering

that I am just here to watch, like I always have.  

Will the fulfillment of youthful promises,

born from optimism and ignorance keep me warm

without the skin smell like summer wind

of my lover in my arms, in our bed.  

The world of my youth grows
hazy to match the world of now, because:

Never behind in smoke, I let dreams cascade like electric poison.

The tips of needles against my brain pan assures me I'm alive,

the blood droplets from the needles remind me

I have a heart to bleed, and dreams to seed

and nowhere / no one to urge my needs.

The points against my brain pan needle me alive,

bloody platelets of DNA track my heartfelt folly

and the dreams I seed run nowhere.  

There is no one here but my urgent need to death.  

The night grows old, my back curves towards the keyboard,

my eyes toward the screen.  

If I get close enough will I see you on the other side,
there to make my path less lonely,

bare the brunt of the chip on my shoulder
for a little bit like you have so often.  

No, I suppose it is the weight
of my own ego dropping on me,

reflecting itself in secret in the artificial glow

I pretend I did not create in you.  

My mind races, inevitably towards
its own understandable and undeniable end,

and I walk slowly behind

picking up the fragments of the life I am living

on the wisps of gasoline

and artificial flowers.

In the end I remember what I said before,

nothing of importance

and
nothing of substance.  

I am the keeper of a lonely dreamscape

who will never

appreciate the touch of life I've had.