It has not been a very good week. If I believed in luck, every day would be like today, Friday the thirteenth. Perhaps if I believed in anything, every day would be better than the last. Without hope being stubborn to not having hope is all we have.
A poem or something.
Empty Handed
The daylight hours have been expanded
I watch them loiter outside like children
Never knowing when to leave and go home
I am done waiting for anything or anyone
Spring used to arrive with a little hope
Now she comes empty handed like all women
There are no gifts being placed before me
I have foolishly wasted all of my kindness
Giving it out freely like candy at Halloween
Even winter does not share all my coldness
The season always finds a reason for thawing
My heart stays as barren as a spinster's womb
Despite flowers blooming out of frozen ground
There is nothing able to warm up my cold body
I might as well be dead already and eulogized
A simple poem carved by my broken finger bones
They are of no use to me on almost every day
I would rather be physically ill than emotionally
Doctors can do wonders fixing up the human body
The mind and its feelings are still sad mysteries
Some of us are complex riddles in our own heads
Other people have us completely figured in theirs
Light bothers my eyes like uncontrollable situations
I have grown found of sleeping without dreaming
There is peace in the everlasting silent thought
Death would not be so bad if it was known as this
My knowledge is not what it used to be or could be
The books gather dust and the intelligence rusts
Life makes it hard for a boy to like being a man
Though girls cannot have it any easier as women
Perhaps there is surviving life and living death.
13/03/09
jr.
Perfect Blue Buildings by Counting Crows
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bGN5sk3VsC4
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