KL KL
Life sucks.
One moment, you're driving down Winding Way at 45mph, singing at the top of your lungs to Monkee songs you hardly know. The windows are down, and the crisp California winter air runs its fingers through your hair and kisses your face. Two of your beloved friends sit in the front seat, singing and dancing and speeding. When you're not in the car, you're at somebody's house, jumping around on the furniture, singing with ukeleles and acting like a bottle of sun-tan lotion is a microphone. (This is called a math study group.)
The next moment, you're at home, and some of the family is over. Suddenly, the aunt begins to cry, and you watch the scene quietly from the other end of the room. You mother is next, her mouth carving deep lines downwards into her face, her knuckes pressed furiosly into streaming eyes. "It's not fair," they cry, in anguish. Your father, who cries often enough, flares his nostrils, attempting, fruitlessly, to monitor the rush of tears that overcomes his face. Then, lastly, your uncle. You have never seen him cry; he is young and happy and despaired. He of everybody maintains composure... the whites of his eyes turn flesh colored, and the tears leave two damp marks on his sweatshirt.
"I dont get it," he says.
I sit, still and unfazed. This is life. They leave, and I sit here, oddly serene and analytical, wrapping myself in a tapestry of angry music. Nobody can find me in this. If i could still write real poetry, I would do so, but the words exit in a cacophony of terrible vocabulary, tumbling ephemeraly from my skull and drifting away before I can make any use of it. I used to be able to write. I cant anymore; the language has packed and left a single note on the door, perhaps bidding farewell. I cant read it, though, for its written in a script I can no longer read, and the symbols are blurred with throat-chained tears.
This was the last poem I wrote, about a month or so ago. I hate it. There isnt anything else in there, no motivation, no spirit, nothing that makes it worthy of anything. But I post it on here, as an ode to what was, and in time, may be again.
The man in black shall strike a pose-
To smell a flower, pluck a rose.
I'll softly in his shoulder lean,
Hiding from a mother's scream.
I gave up, and so it goes:
Blood is more than what it seems.
Make a list, check it thrice.
("Apologies, she was so nice.")
Chronicling the Coward's law,
Bed me down in black of straw.
Feeding friends of rats and mice:
Nature always equal draws.
One moment, you're driving down Winding Way at 45mph, singing at the top of your lungs to Monkee songs you hardly know. The windows are down, and the crisp California winter air runs its fingers through your hair and kisses your face. Two of your beloved friends sit in the front seat, singing and dancing and speeding. When you're not in the car, you're at somebody's house, jumping around on the furniture, singing with ukeleles and acting like a bottle of sun-tan lotion is a microphone. (This is called a math study group.)
The next moment, you're at home, and some of the family is over. Suddenly, the aunt begins to cry, and you watch the scene quietly from the other end of the room. You mother is next, her mouth carving deep lines downwards into her face, her knuckes pressed furiosly into streaming eyes. "It's not fair," they cry, in anguish. Your father, who cries often enough, flares his nostrils, attempting, fruitlessly, to monitor the rush of tears that overcomes his face. Then, lastly, your uncle. You have never seen him cry; he is young and happy and despaired. He of everybody maintains composure... the whites of his eyes turn flesh colored, and the tears leave two damp marks on his sweatshirt.
"I dont get it," he says.
I sit, still and unfazed. This is life. They leave, and I sit here, oddly serene and analytical, wrapping myself in a tapestry of angry music. Nobody can find me in this. If i could still write real poetry, I would do so, but the words exit in a cacophony of terrible vocabulary, tumbling ephemeraly from my skull and drifting away before I can make any use of it. I used to be able to write. I cant anymore; the language has packed and left a single note on the door, perhaps bidding farewell. I cant read it, though, for its written in a script I can no longer read, and the symbols are blurred with throat-chained tears.
This was the last poem I wrote, about a month or so ago. I hate it. There isnt anything else in there, no motivation, no spirit, nothing that makes it worthy of anything. But I post it on here, as an ode to what was, and in time, may be again.
The man in black shall strike a pose-
To smell a flower, pluck a rose.
I'll softly in his shoulder lean,
Hiding from a mother's scream.
I gave up, and so it goes:
Blood is more than what it seems.
Make a list, check it thrice.
("Apologies, she was so nice.")
Chronicling the Coward's law,
Bed me down in black of straw.
Feeding friends of rats and mice:
Nature always equal draws.