Meathead Monologue

where is my heart

in the room drowning in silence, i am encased with the feeling of being so lost.
even though i am aware of my surroundings and the location in which i sit and ponder,
there is a sense in me that cannot find its way around.
something must be loose inside my head, something is rusted and i am discombobulated for the umpteenth time.
there isn't a place for me to stay, besides the house in which i sleep.
but the place i am looking for isn't made of wood and brick, it's rather soft and fleshy,
and i call it a friend.
in the room of silence, i am surrounded by people who are just like me
wishing and dreaming and hoping and praying for a purpose, but ultimately finding none.
the room smells of death and decay and it can't be anything other than the heart inside my body,
and the hearts of those around me.
in this silent room we are lost and looking for a home
but it is so hard when that home is not
looking for you too.
i am so lost within myself i do not know where my decaying heart even lies.
it may be between my lungs and it may be at the bottom of my stomach and may be pierced by my rib cage and it may be snuggled up to my brain.
since my heart is lost and dying,
i, too, am lost and dying.
and the home of a friend who has a beating heart and walls of warmth
is no where in my messy vicinity.
i don't have a home.
i only have a house in which i sleep at,
and it does not feel like a friend at all.

r.k.