Thin glass people, standing in a row. They all try to make their houses different.
They are all the same. Once upon a time they cared. They even loved me, some of them.
Now they say I'm made of cheese.
Is it really so bad that my pores show?
They used to care.
I turn for them, trying.
My tired breath rolls over them when I get yellow, when I am in a sort of passionate emotion.
They shiver without realizing now.
The jingle of their beautiful skin I can hear, just barely now.
It used to make me content.
Now they don't really see me, too busy and bored with the pretend lives no one gave them.
Oh me, oh moon.
I don't know where it comes from, if it's nature or nurture, but one of every thousand or so people, "students", I run into have it. It's like a disease, but I think it's a good disease, this ability, or need, to turn a phrase, employ an adjective, twist a poem. When you have it, you can't not write, you can't not see the world in a certain way. You, my dear, are afflicted, but I suppose, like the few others, you won't be seeking a cure.
ReplyDeleteOh, dark or joyous, the poems are a pleasure to read!
I love this poem...sorta makes me wonder what the world and it's nature is trying to tell us.
ReplyDeletewow...thank you both!
ReplyDelete