Sunday, 4 April 2010

The Glow of Death

I hate being
And I sure dislike
But I keep seeing
Your old rental,
It’s black as ever
It’s even been
I tell myself
I haven’t forgotten,
Your picture stays
On my nightstand.
But so does my
Bad chick-lit, and
Contact lens solution.
I wonder,
I really do,
What actually happened.
Quite often,
I remember
Your smile
(That funny little thing).
I never knew
What made you smile
All I could do
Was wait a while
It always came
Later, not sooner.
And when I called your name
It would disappear.
I try my best
Not to forget you,
But I suspect
This love has died.
All that’s left
Is a glow.
How cold it is,
This glow
Of death.


ok, so i wrote more modern weird poetry. i will admit, this pseudo-intellectual thing is getting to me. PSEUDOOOOOOO. America seems to have kicked my inspiration into overdrive.

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