Often, as I awake in my room
I am the first person holding a candle
To myself, the one that murmurs
In his dreams, weeping
These are the days, I wake up to
Empty fountains, ringing bells
For a world that falters
Nearly as much as I do
My lips taste timid metals
My mouth raw with hunger
To enter the capital of the opposite of indifference
I am sick with solitude
My eyes are lost to the nights
I end up staying home, too late alone
I see another solemn evening pass
There goes my life, it weighs upon me
I am the first and last person, I talk to
Each day, the mouth that cries
No water from these eyes at noon
When the world expects my strength
Summer sheds her petals in soft agonies
It’s only in Spring, I stare and stand before
The large white house, and ponder
The clarity of extinguished things
Like memory, like the angels of the soul
Beneath the slow martyrdom of strain
I spread my heart thin in massive words
Letters, poems, that don’t amount to much.
wow, i’m quite impressed by the honest emotion in this poem!
Honest emotion is not something I’ve very good at inhibiting, as you will come to realize rather quickly by reading my blog 🙂
This painted a picture that is far too familiar. Well done.
Familiar is not always good!