Different
Monotonous poetry
I start it over with something slow,
Something different, something swell.
Inking. Sinking. I might as well.
Encapsulated within my force-field,
A fly bangs his wings upon my mosquito net,
I let him in, I watch me bleed.
As I chase away my death,
The clock strikes one,
Cozy up and off to bed
Only to have them come back.
Raging at me like a pair of hounds
If only I didn’t crack.
Nevertheless, I make way.
I make way for them.
Some things always remain the same.
If only I could think of something else,
Mother’s words ringing in my ears,
Left cheek. Right cheek. Crystal clear.
A teardrop and a sigh,
My headphones hug my earlobes,
I crumble and I die.
Father’s silence was fun,
Reducing me to a box of smut,
Overpampered. Cumbersome.
Have I become,
A roaring flame or a smoldering gun,
The raging tempest or the twilight sun.
The path I take is different,
The outcome, none.
Pent up angst masked by pretense.
Decades, years, months,
I toy with my epiphanies,
Wishing I had something different,
Something swell, something fun,
I start over with my old pen,
Wish I could have felt I’d won.
Thank you for reading.
