4:00 p.m. - 01/17/02
.lurking like a troll under the bridge between your heart. and your head.
I honestly did feel ok earlier today
but the more time presses on,
the more seratonin slips away,
the more my eyes feel gray &
gazing at old pictures of people
I don't have the strength to call
feels less and less like an acceptable way
to pass the four hours and
twenty-seven minutes before bed.
I know what I said last week
about wanting to try
I know most days you think it isn't true.
But how on earth is a girl honest with you?
how do I tell a harvard graduate there's a tornado in my head?
or that the girl who should be celebrating
is four-days-less than one month dead?
meanwhile, this mess of anxiety and angst
thanks god for the days she doesn't have to leave her room?
I try to phrase it perfectly
so they'll let the means justify the end
but no verbal victor can defend
seventeen years and two-too many aspirin
sixteen years and too tired to care
when I'm inspired with yet another poem
probably long since written by a master
I may never read.
imagine a photographer whose camera
one time captured light, now realizing
that one abrupt flash is the only remaining ray
come sit on my couch and tell
me what you have to say?
in the face of this?
the girl I miss
insistant that this last attempt
would get her out for good
every comparison lays out it should
have been me, but this still doesn't
touch upon the truth of how much
I wish it were.
and there are still four hours and
twenty-four minutes before I sleep
but any promises this poet had to keep
have long since been misplaced.
seventeen years and two-too many aspirin.
a flash and then - erased.
*
it has so little truth in it. but words are such fine walls on days where the snow stops too early and the cold continues far too late.
chord
with-another-headache
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