My favorite album no longer spins on my stereo;
'cos it grew tired of running in circles for you.
Even the band grew tired of waiting around for her,
it refuses to play for even another second longer.
I lit candle stick's for tonight's lovely dinner;
but now they've melted to the base & leave a dim flicker,
making shadow puppet's dance across my clean cultiarly.
The flame mimics my passion for her, it's visible; but barely.
My thoughts are tired from running laps; 'cos they constantly
go up and down the little track of paranoia & sensitivity.
There's this tune in my head that plays like a perfect melody
each time I hear her name uttered aloud; and on the drum I try
and play along to the tempo, I'm unable to keep up to the rapidly
increasing thud her heart beat makes in her chest, ever so faintly.
I'm silly, I know; fore I will forgive her even without an apology.
The worst punishment I can administer is omitting her from my poetry;
but that hurts me more than her, so I return her to lonely analogy's.
I honestly believed that it'd be different; but instead I'm quietly
saying my prayers like a bad habit I picked up in elementary.
I ask God for courage to keep breathing through another unhappy
day; because when I wake I know I will return to my normal fallacy.
No matter how confident I try to tell myself that this, today
is the last time I wait for her, try and hear myself as I say,
'never again, cease the longing of anticipation,' because you'll only
discover her again in a dream, some kinda unending recapped memory.
It's uncanny how little I even attempt to half-ass try
and erase my past any more; rarely do I sip whiskey.
My lungs are able to breathe now, much more easily
than when I didn't seem to care about just about anybody.
I no longer resemble a skeleton; and I'm back to my
old ways, trying to face the tediously boring reality.
I don't mind that she rarely calls me anymore; 'cos lately
I've been reading my old sonnet's and poetry entry's
and I noticed a pattern, I've always been quite miserably
depressed so then what seems to keep me from exploring my journey?
Our summer fling must'a been an accident, that's surely
the only explanation to our love felt history.
I begin to ease myself back into the way
my routine had been before I got caught up in the revelry
of her; and now I find it neither un or totally necessary.
By candle light I'm again searching books of philosophy
for some kind of faith; but I find only cleverly
bitter men writing verses of beautiful poetic poetry.
I still do the oddest things; so I have to concentrate and try
to remember it's over and stop setting the table for two like it's still July.
A biography of failure's and heartache is what's been brutally
given to the world by my hands as I graffiti the occasionally
beautiful sonnet, metaphor, song, poem, or some kind of analogy.
I hear from friends and family but it's only occasionally
and I find that the time between calls grows ever more quickly;
but I find I neither care nor don't; cause I am utterly
lost in the deep compounds of my day-dream fantasy.
My father and mother's voice's both would sound completely
foreign to me at this point; because even though this city
holds home to life long friends you'd swear they were in another country.
Some day's I find it trying at best to even smile politely
at the strangers I see on an almost on a daily
routine; and it's only out of complete habit I reply courteously
to anyone, offer assistance, hold open door's, give thanks or utter an apology.
All these people passing always look to be in such a hurry;
but all I can tell is they're rushing only to get somewhere quickly,
and once there, they will wait for the panic feeling of anxiety
begging to take them somewhere else, that to me is insanity.
After language our worst invention was history.
Nothing is accurate, these syllables do no justice except inadequately
describe my feelings in a completely basic rudimentary
style, an example that seems only to help magnify
my uneducated way or even make me appear an utter and complete phony.
It takes my best effort and complete honest try to earnestly
express my true self to anybody; and there's only
a select few who have seen my true lack of personality.
It took me a life time of learning through painfully
embarrassing experiences to never show myself publicly,
unless I want the people I love to call only on a holiday.
If it hadn't been for my need to document almost obsessively
the days of darkness, the days of light, my attempts at poetry
who knows where I would or wouldn't be right now, today?
I had once grown vacant of any sorta compassionate humanity.
All truth and virtue I knew blew away in those hazy
days where I attacked my sobriety with a heavily
arsenal army, it was difficult not to fall into a lovely
pile of pseudo-happy days, to see scornful ladies.
Got a habit of thinking the voice I hear calling me is a deity
not some banshee longing to destroy my soul; and to utterly
sink me into a pit of remorseful hell, I try to temporary
find peace in the independence of my new found security.
One day this soul will catch up to me and then we'll truly
see which holds more grace in God's eyes, and there's a heavy
feeling of musical melody's polluting my memory.
All these things come to an end; these constant lady's
and these vices that drag me unwillingly into a whisper that softly
says it'll bleed me dry of any heart ache if I just say,
'okay, i succomb. I will never again try to find a divine serenity.'
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