Too tired to find a title

Discussion in 'Poet's Corner' started by BelovedDreamer, Aug 11, 2006.

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  1. BelovedDreamer

    BelovedDreamer Well-Known Member

    I breathe into my aching lungs
    And thank goodness it’s Friday

    In a pleading voice
    With still faces in a picture frame
    I wish it was your heart had been broken
    Not mine.

    Standing suddenly
    Rocking my desk chair back against the wall

    I decide that a cigarette
    Is the answer to the pain in my chest
    So I grab my lighter
    And an inhaler
    And go

    Out into soft night
    A smoke shield against affliction.

    No doctor here
    Just a really ornery asthmatic
    With a death wish.

    Putting out the light against pavement
    I withdraw to the house
    To curl tightly round my sleeping dog.
    Pale fur on black clothing
    Canine snoring.

    The pain continues
    Beneath meat and muscle
    Driving past bone.

    I begin to wonder if it is really there
    Or just another figment
    Of diseased mind.

    Holding conversations in my head
    I begin to fear
    That soon I will hear answers.
    One more straw
    And the bale will split wide open

    Spilling its contents like a wound
    Mold infested
    And likely to cause colic.

    My skin crawls
    And I feel sure that any moment
    My skin will burst wide open
    Like a Sci-fi thriller scene
    And something alien will be revealed.

    I am as sure as the arrogance of youth can make me
    I am poisonous
    And as unfit for this world
    As a divine mistake could make me.

    I try to hold a pattern
    But I cannot keep my grip
    And it falls apart around me
    A crumbled
    Ragged mess.

    Being perverse
    I enjoy the way they scatter about me
    The now loose pieces
    The dusty entrails
    Collecting dust.

    Holding my head in my hands
    I am amazed at its size
    Its heavy roundness.
    I feel absurd
    Like a bobblehead doll.

    I find myself wishing
    King Henry would chance by
    And do me a favor.
    Relieve me of my ridiculous burden.

    Fondling the suede ears
    Of an old dog
    I listen to the labored whuffle of his breathing
    And envy him his age
    And the surety
    Of his doggie life.

    I may know this too
    The slowing of my blood through my veins
    The toiling of my heart
    In an aging body
    Though that is unsure as anything

    I do not say it aloud
    My secret fears
    My private prayer
    I do not wish to tempt the future.
    Today is enough

    And tomorrow will be what it is

    I give up on holding to a scheme
    The rhythm is in me
    And comes through
    Despite the lack of purpose.
    Story of my life—

    Accidental providence.
    Things work out eventually.
    Hold my breath and wait and see.

    I wish I could just stop writing. It does me no good. Just makes me loathe myself more.
    Last edited by a moderator: Aug 11, 2006
  2. theleastofthese

    theleastofthese SF Friend Staff Alumni

    Dearly Beloved;

    I'm just the opposite: I wish that I could START writing again. My writer's block has petrified over the months of my not-writing and seems immoveable.

    I disagree that your writing does you no good: it's an excellent way to let your feelings out so that they don't fester inside you til they explode and do damage. I am sorry that your writing makes you loathe yourself more. It does good things for me - I admire your talent and love the way you put your feelings so aptly into words. You express not only your own feelings, but also mine sometimes. Thank you for your poems. I love them and think they're tops.:wink: :smile:


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