I'm with you in Rockland:

I walk the streets
      of my old home and smile at the neighbours
      while their pets gambol on the golden grass
      their original owners dead
      their liquid whiteless eyes sad.
I walk the streets
     of Sydney, Melbourne, Beijing, Vietnam,
     where the ponies are fluffy, the pianos are phony,
     the pavement scarred with spit and
     the history scarred with irony.
I walk the streets
    of my life upon which I continually sigh
    as the tips of my fingers freeze
    and shuddering laughter echo
    in the plains of my love.
I walk the streets
    of ebony and ivory
    where music and lyrics bleed
    snaky tendrils of rapture
    ravage all that they capture.
I walk the streets
   of Silence that
   only the Moon could speak of
   only the deaf could mutter of
   only the dead could convey.
I walk the streets
   of all that is triumphant
   and gawk at the shining glory
   gossiping away with victory
   laughing, snickering, smirking.
I walk the streets
   of my father's dreams
   his countenance stern and loving
   in his hands, mine
   on his shoulders, the universe.
I walk the steets
   of God's lover
   but this is a lie
   one can only try
   kneeling, only to cry.
I walk the steets of my mind
    Within it, I sit and lurk.

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Yes. I ought to stop posting my mediocre attempts and keep my experiments to myself. If I let it ferment long enough, or possibly just rot away, maybe there'll be something somewhat sweet left. Residual, but...sweet.

I'm just going crazy a little because I no longer have the time to revise my lecture materials on a daily basis for all my units to keep up with classes. It annoys me. Just as it does when my hands do not distinctly smell of soap. Fingers in particular must be either odourless or soapy fresh.