Wednesday, September 12, 2007

Sick, Tired and Bad Poetry

A little known fact about me is that when I'm sick, I tend to be poetic. I'm not saying I come out with good poetry, but I do tend to write poems during the really horrid days. I think its because my brain is just too tired to stitch sentences together and will thus rely on imagery to convey whatever emotion I feel like expressing. Oh well, here's my output for this really bad day.

You sit in front of me,

expressionless with your phantom eyes;

- Oh, if you were just a memory

Of delicious blurred lines,

iridescent in my mind

that even your shadow is luminous –

But you, as we both know, are not –


Instead, you are dull, as if you are dead;

And you speak of dead words

And dead promises – were they mine?

I can barely recognize the carcasses.

They could be yours.

It almost doesn’t matter. Really.

Do you expect me to mourn?

You’re almost intangible now, flickering,

Like candlelight, like lost islands, like economies,

Like promises when they’re no longer convenient.

Am I being convenient?

I hope not.

I hope I make you uncomfortable.

As uncomfortable as I am now, sitting in front of you;

Dreaming that you aren’t there and I wasn’t here,

Remembering a time when you were alive

Vibrant, beautiful, solid,

So that when I touch you, you do not break

Nor shatter into excuses

But instead, you smile.

You’re not smiling now.

I think you’re crying, but I could be wrong.

Ghosts do not cry,

And if they did, who could see their tears?

They would be like mist,

Like dry rain,

Floating, evaporating, even before they fall.

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