Midnight Poetry

The world does not belong to me,

and I not to the world.

So what do I belong to, if not myself or them?

I belong to Jupiter, an alien from mars.

I don’t belong in noisy places, crowded fairs, nor bars.

The church is filled with congregation, a massive blob of one.

And I of one, a massive blob, of gelatinous juice from space.

I eat and eat as I wish, I do not say my grace.

And the jobs are filled with workers, just as miserable as me, but work I shall not do. It feels just so monotonous, like that monkey at the zoo.

I’m rather like a monster, a nasty CEO, but they dress too proper, with ties and button up shirts. For these things I have no neck. The money charts I would wreck. I have no wrists for a fat gold watch, or a chest to hang some tweed. I do not have a formal head, for hat, nor an ankle for a shoe. To run real fast in football or a bank for money to save. For have I not no bones at all? No casket for a grave?

Certainly not for I am flab from tip to toe, but I do not have no feet. My butt it's made of rubber, and you’d scream if we were to meet. I fibble and fabble night and day and my lips are sealed with glue. My brain feels like a can of soup, I have no center for which to droop. My silly willy is as nilly as pie, and of this loss I cannot deny. Some call me ridiculous but I prefer nebulous, so of this wheel round out for less. As to settle is…