The clock reads 12:34. You blink and it's 12:35.
You think of her in the hospital. Cancer eating her up. Turning her insides into soot and ash. Gone now. To dance and sing through the stars and beyond. 50 days later he's still crying.
Inhale, exhale.
She says she loves flare in her photos. Chases the sun around with a butterfly net. She hides from love, dreams of capturing moments she's too scared to have. You don't know what to tell her.
You hate being alone.
She's making secrets. Poetic secrets. Don't tell anyone. She drove across town in the middle of the night to show you. Don't tell anyone. Not even your cat. Your cat could never be trusted with a secret like this.
Alone. You're allergic to loneliness. You try to be alright with it but you'd rather be anywhere else.
She's follows the blonde girl around like a puppy dog. She says they're sisters. You know this isn't true. Blondie will keep her around as long as she feels like it and then leave her on the side of the road to bleed to death and you'll pick up the pieces as she calls you a bitch.
You pray to God someone phones soon.
He says he's going to be a dad. No one's sure how much of this is fictional and how much is real. In his own mind he's Rambo but we all know he's about 8 years old. He puts on 13 shirts and a jacket to lift weights. Uses an entire bottle of Head and Shoulders because he likes the tingling, sits in the sun with a film of soap scum baked onto his arms and legs. Skin flaking.
Think of all the friends you have. Think of all the friends you don't have.
A contest entry
- My Very Own Rounds Contest - Part One by Exodus.
600 points, ended September 4, 2007, 31 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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ah, alergies to loneliness make us do something rash, like the last call at the bar and a pickup that could give one a rash..
dead phones that we can't bury cause there aint' no coffin big enough to muffle their silence. Even cancer brings a loneliness from friends and some family who no longer no what to say, or how to act around the still breathing dead, you paint such good portrayals of loneliness here~~~Artis
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This is certainly something different. I like the switches in perspective and your descriptions were great. One like in particular was just awesome; "In his own mind he's Rambo but we all know he's about 8 years old."
Thank you
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I like the random-ness of it, but at the same time it's kind of weird...I like the::
"She's making secrets. Poetic secrets. Don't tell anyone. She drove across town in the middle of the night to show you. Don't tell anyone. Not even your cat. Your cat could never be trusted with a secret like this."
Good job : ] -
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Thanks Vixen. It's definitely weird and random. That part was about a friend who is making a poetry "zine" but she's doing it anonymously except that she showed me. All the little blurbs are about actual people I know. All the "you" parts are me Now you know!
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