Words.

So...over the years, I've written a lot of poetry. I thought I would post a few of them every now and then. The first is a prose poem...the rest are free verse. So...without further adieu...

Timex

Tick. Tick. Tick. The clock counts seconds twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three-hundred and sixty-five days a year. Incessant reminder of the memories we once shared, ticking by into dark oblivion. Tick. Tick. Tick. "He's not with you now," the sinister numbered face on the wall laughs. Shattered dreams, their shards a putrid mosaic of my life. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tears drop into a pool of pain, welled-up on the desk before me. I swim daily. Tick. Tick. Tick. Nothing to do but count, keep track. The backbone and very core of life, ticking and tocking. The world spins on seconds and hours. Sixty and sixty make twenty-four only when seven and fifty-two make three-hundred and sixty-five. Tick. Tick. Tick.




Cold October Morning

Cold morning dawned
and I left for our spot in the park.
I sat on our bench
and I waited for you.
The autumn leaves gathered at my feet,
faint traces of their brilliance, now faded.
The frigid bench beneath me
ached for your presence.
The morning slipped to afternoon
and afternoon to evening.
Darkness crept in
and I left our bench.
I walked the familiar journey back to my apartment,
your voice echoing in my head.
The air stung my lungs
and the tears bit my cheeks.
I walked into my room,
the merciless bed laughing at me.
Silent telephone,
sitting on its bitter receiver.
Barren windows,
framing my despair.
Another empty venture,
fruitless and in vain.
Dawn will break
and I'll begin the hollow routine.
On our bench I will sit
and wait for you again


Tuesdays Without You

Words dance around in my head,
but they're meaningless.
The emptiness in my heart has taken its toll.
Funereal tears bleed from hollow eyes,
and I'm left staring at clean, crisp pages
with ink-stained fingers
from failed attempts.
Attempts to make you understand,
to make you see,
but you're blind.
Completely oblivious.
The clock is stuck at quarter-to-three,
much like you and I,
stuck at quarter-to-never
and half-past too late.
You apologize profusely,
but much like my empty writings,
it's meaningless.
Just words.
Barren, destitute words.
I don't know your eyes anymore,
I can't even see your soul in them.
They're supposed to be like windows,
to me, they're more like doors,
blocking the truth,
favoring the lies.
Lies we've conjured up because they're easier to believe.
Exasperated sighs slip between my lips
and I want to be done.
Throwing it away seems to be the trend,
maybe following your lead would be smart.


Void

I strive to find words to emulate my emotions,
but I'm left searching an empty soul,
a barren soul,
stripped of its shine,
leaving behind nothing but a scintillating parallel to that which once was.
Staring into mirrors,
glowering at a nameless face.
Behind empty eyes,
a vast expanse of hollow dreams,
false moments conjured up for the lack of their existence.
Make-believe times shared run wild in my imagination.
I feed you the words I want to graze my own ears,
and I'm bitter for it.
A picture is imprisoned in my mind of what we're supposed to be,
but it merely lives in fool's paradise.
Save your futile alibis and exhausted excuses,
I'm not as transparent as you'd like me to believe.