Because apparently, people still read my blog...
Honestly, guys, sorry for not updating. I've been horrible about this lately, but college is a whole new playing field for me. However, in honor of my birthday, I'm posting up another one of my poems. I was debating for a few days whether or not this should ever see the light of day, but I'm on such an emotional high right now that I feel nothing can crush me. Even your raw, ruthless criticism. I'm not giving any context, so take what you want from it.
Fleeting
The clouds move like a drunken New York biker.
Barely above ground level,
With no sense of a straight line or slowing down.
Fast like a subway train
Only it's the express one, so it skips a couple necessary stops.
Fast like the cigarette-infested October rainwater
Racing down battered concrete
into the Underworld.
Like a pencil gliding across a dead tree
To draw my skewed interpretation of Zooey Deschanel's nose
in 500 Days of Summer.
Why do we move so fast
Like braindead coke addicts?
I'm not on drugs.
I don't think.
I wonder if, when he wakes up,
He ever remembers how my eyelashes tickled his neck
As we drooled on his Ikea pillowcase
And pretended we didn't have class in twenty minutes,
Or that his roommate wasn't undressing in the bed next to us.
From the day we met,
We were as likely to last as the New York clouds could stay in place.
We raced through a fragile honey-colored plane of impossibilities.
When you speed the "in love" part,
It feels a lot more like falling.
And now
After the stale whiskey and screwdriver shots
And his lovely marks and my sleeping pills
And the uncontrollable, barely remembered hysteria,
After getting used to waking up without his warm elbow jabbing into my shoulder
After realizing his ability to ignore any emotion
After one week
I just keep thinking about the New York bikers,
Recklessly speeding and not caring who they hurt in the process
And leaving others to clean up the mess they've made.
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Tuesday, October 13
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