every now and then
someone like you
comes along and
I am in love before
the fucking
begins.
it always ends
the same way.
with you not
meeting my eyes
and lies about how
much fun we can have
some other day.
and then you
say nothing.
not hello or
how's it going or
it's cold outside.
you just slide
into the chair
on the other side
of the room and
stare off.
gone is your
hand or your
mouth on my
cheek and the
cheap-smelling
shit that tastes
nice on you.
our minute
connection is
a squirming nerve
that neither of
us acknowledge.
I've fallen,
become the
stained rug
on the floor.
no more to you
than the dumbass
you've made me.
and maybe
this is joy-
or almost close.
Author notes
another personal one
A contest entry
- Joy by DogFish.
700 points, ended January 30, 11 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Any advice is welcome
Comments
1 - 8 of 8
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succinct. painful. brilliant. all those other fun words that I need to describe how good this is.
-
Joy?...or the maddening quest for joy?!
-
our minute
connection is
a squirming nerve
that neither of
us acknowledge.
... this part is awing me ... all over the friggin place ...
and let me just say . that joy comes in many forms. sometimes it just is ...
-
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thank you. and joy is a weird emotion.
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This is a stellar piece of behavorial social commentary, aside from the deadly dose of sarcasm. Close to joy indeed.
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thanks
-
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you are ripe with the passion of poetry.
and i love it.
-
this is fucking amazing!
"our minute
connection is
a squirming nerve
that neither of
us acknowledge."
your style. it gets me every time. :]
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