Frank

I sit and try to write a poem
All about an emotion
I’ve written about a hundred times before.
No reason for my sonnets,
just trying to find something distracting
as I avoid her calls

(what does that say about me?
The girl who thinks only of
herself)

I’ve written one already today,
Something meaningful it made me cry
Is that what I want to do again?

(yes, I admit it I’m a
depression junkie
addicted to pretending I’m something I’m not)

So what else is there in my life
Other than self indulgence and counting calories?
The thousands poems I’ve written have all been shams
Of my teenage angst days

(my soul’s not really dark as I pretend)

Then I sit and stare at the markings on my arm
(Sometimes I want to start again)
She’s always after me use the scar cream
She so lovingly bought me

(but really I don’t want to lose them
I only cut because I thought it was cool)

…the addiction is what came later…

Trip trip trip my mind is wandering
To somewhere I don’t belong
(please that’s not supposed to be melodramatic)
Some place I am skinny and fit
And then I bemoan my weight as I eat
Buttered bread with sugar
I think maybe I should exercise or do yoga or something
But instead I walk and talk to myself
Followed by the ghosts who watch my every move
And provide the most narcissistic commentary
All the boy I thought adored me
(am I schizophrenic?)
Because in my dreams I’m never the one thinking
I’m the one being thought about

What’s that say about me?

Did I just write that?
So I suppose I’m Jack Kerouac
First word is the best word and all that
…
Uh-huh, yeah not.
He had a genius mind
And I’m just the attention seeking whore
Who always glances for a ring

(though not yet eighteen)

My mother calls and we talk for awhile
While I’m impatiently waiting for her wind to die
She says I’m her light her reason her everything
And I just sit there wanting tell her to
Go fuck herself
Sweet little bitch that I am

So I sit a try to write a poem as the computer fails to work
(because pen and paper never did it for me)
Close my eyes and count to twelve
hope it works when I am through
NO still slow frozen
repeat as many times as necessary
While still trying to grasp and compose in my mind
While this rock song goes through my head
Drumming to the beat of tapping keys
The most pointless drivel you’ve ever read
Of an untalented drama queen who thinks she’s all that
(poetry has gone to her head)
I’d like to think I have well deep eyes
A cynic who sees beyond everything
But I’m just a self-absorbed fluffball
And there is nothing I can commit
To the printed page.

I sat down to write a poem
All about an emotion
I’ve written about a hundred times before.
Maybe something will come and I’ll dress it up
With my put on depression and clichés
And just continue living the way I always have,
Inconsistent and totally unforgivable
And never knowing how to end it…