a funeral and break-up afternoon
The First
If I had stood a chance,
I swear I never would have left.
Now all of your faces are just wincing at
me as I distort myself all the more
for overcompensation.
I will pour myself into a glass
so that you can drink me deep.
You can mull it over tomorrow,
as I will be a part of you.
The Last
Everything inside of me tells me
all at once
"get out, just go,"
but I don't.
I never do.
I just sit and tap my fingers on things
and chew on pencils.
That's all I ever do
do.
So as I anxiously crawl more and more
forward
toward the edge of the seat of algebra,
I don't worry at all that I might come crashing down.
I don't worry,
so much that when it happens,
it happens to be a total shock,
like electricity
or a sudden death.
The ground below me is hard
and unwelcoming
and made up of linoleum and dirt.
I became one, though,
with the squares of black and white and grey,
dissolving,
fading in
like camouflage.
And I wonder if they miss me.
And I wonder if they miss me.
And I wonder if they miss me
at all.
And in Between
As the ground moves below my self,
my body and I are separated
Anxiously.
Our centers are fixed,
but we are shaken, like leaves in the wind,
All at once together and apart.
Isn't art supposed to be about passion? Because, honestly, I am a writer, and I am not at all passionate about anything lately. I feel like I'm losing something.
If I had stood a chance,
I swear I never would have left.
Now all of your faces are just wincing at
me as I distort myself all the more
for overcompensation.
I will pour myself into a glass
so that you can drink me deep.
You can mull it over tomorrow,
as I will be a part of you.
The Last
Everything inside of me tells me
all at once
"get out, just go,"
but I don't.
I never do.
I just sit and tap my fingers on things
and chew on pencils.
That's all I ever do
do.
So as I anxiously crawl more and more
forward
toward the edge of the seat of algebra,
I don't worry at all that I might come crashing down.
I don't worry,
so much that when it happens,
it happens to be a total shock,
like electricity
or a sudden death.
The ground below me is hard
and unwelcoming
and made up of linoleum and dirt.
I became one, though,
with the squares of black and white and grey,
dissolving,
fading in
like camouflage.
And I wonder if they miss me.
And I wonder if they miss me.
And I wonder if they miss me
at all.
And in Between
As the ground moves below my self,
my body and I are separated
Anxiously.
Our centers are fixed,
but we are shaken, like leaves in the wind,
All at once together and apart.
Isn't art supposed to be about passion? Because, honestly, I am a writer, and I am not at all passionate about anything lately. I feel like I'm losing something.