I found an old copy of People Magazine last night.
It seemed oddly appropriate that I should find it
the One night I decide to spend on my own floor,
but it was titled
"GONE TOO SOON: Remembering 65 Celebrities Who Died Far Too Young"
As I thumbed through pages of eerie smiles
a drop of spit landed on the page where John Ritter wished me well
and I looked up to see that I wasn't fooling her.
No.
I am not listening.
Yes.
I am Always gone.
Most of these deaths were uncontrollable, I thought.
Disease. Accidents. Homicides. Stingrays.
Suicides were peppered in
just to add introspect to Nightmare.
Yes.
I have my half of rent.
No.
I can't afford milk.
The people in this magazine
had done great things
and touched the lives of thousands...millions!
And some still thought so little of themselves....
"How strange.", I'd thought.
Fine.
I'll leave.
Yes.
Put the lock on the door.
How you can be a perfectly decent person
and still feel like total and utter
Shit.
Comments
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when you do this, worlds stop to listen. (do this = write amazing poetry).
in this poem you managed to prove 2 things:
a) that you are a master at depicting an everyday occurrence and spinning it into GOLD
that you are living IT
(IT = the poet's life)
seriously man, crank it. Let em hear you way the hell over THERE---------------------->
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whoa that's weird, my b ) turned into a Joe Cool smiley up there.
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=) Hopefully, that turned into a smiley rather than looking like a fetish on a website not too far away.
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Nope. Stayed a fetish.
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