Immaturity for Beginners. (Foul Play)

Oh, just one of those evenings....

Immaturity for Beginners. (Foul Play)

I've become a foul, vicious and bothersome mood.

I'd cheerfully strangle an unwary smile.

My give a damn being presently at large, and far removed.

Not a drop of F**k-It in sight for a good country mile.

Neither curious at the cause nor concerned with a cure.

More a spectator than bent to participation.

While not beyond admitting a certain allure,

I'm loathe to invoke such pedestrian devastation.

Caught unwary while mired in unwelcome recollections.

 A skill I've not mastered to my satisfaction.

Then sunk unceremoniously into crass recriminations.

My ridiculous mind forming it's Mad childish factions.

Far too late did I acknowledge the troublesome signs.

Like plummeting towards doom while futzing with my hat.

Now properly cantankerous and appallingly unrefined.

I pick up my Pen.  Yes it's come to all that.

I'm beginning to suspect I may be just a wee bit dramatic.

I know that seems wild and terribly far fetched.

Uncalled for reactions being at their best problematic.

I fear my fragile credulity lies improperly stretched.

Regardless, I've lost my Patience with all that may entail.

I snapped at a fictitious, innocent thought.

While bitching at pigeons I duly noted I'd derailed.

Noting a craving for revisiting old battles fought.

Frightening, really, when even I'm wary of what I may do.

Accustomed as I am to being first in the know.

Historically such instances have inspired quite the to-do.

I Pity the foolish with seats at this show.

I'd be a far better creature were I to retire, claim my fatigue.

If nothing more than merely to avoid the tears.

But I'm no longer just irritated, I'm mildly intrigued.

Best to enjoy myself before my logic reappears.

Mind, I'm not typically drawn to unwarranted Spite.

Neither would I ever be mistake a Saint.

My subconscious subcommittee is itching for a fight.

It's best I should avoid the slow and the faint.

Blessedly rare such pugnacious departures.

I'd much rather summon such moods as I will.

Like the Dream I'm out and about and alarmingly starkers,

The absence of Candor a fast fading thrill.

Reigning in my chagrin is a Herculean feat.

An unwritten epic with which I'm now far past familiar.

Though an unpleasant aspect seethes in defeat,

I grow weary of tending this creature so unhinged and peculiar.

So I'll soothe it in Seep, trust in medicinal Slumber.

Aim for a morning less socially inept.

I'll not come undone for ungracious, lewd Thunder.

Relying on a Dawn I pray more adept.