Nothing Left

July 1, 2010
Wondering about this
rhythm, flow, letting go
because I really just want to
write a poem, not really about
anything in particular, except
it's weird because
now all I think about is, well,
nothing in particular.
I feel like I'm lost and drowning in
a place I've just woken up to and
normally, I'd pretend to know just where I was
but now that screaming voice yelling
has just gotten too loud to
let you back into my life and
we're through, so
what's the point of hanging around you?
that I've lost everyone else and
I'm most likely completely lost in this
dark forest of incomprehensibleness
not that I,
you know,
really mind, except maybe I might like a little
But I can get out of it alone,
you know,
not too worried about getting lost on this
road map of life
or, well, anything else, for that matter
but I would, rather, like a friend to accompany me
on that, actually
and Jesus Christ, you keep forgetting that! and
after a while I think it's
probably useless to even bother
and I forget most of the day and then,
around eight thirty at night,
I start wondering where the person to tell my day went to, and
that was you, but
you're gone.
way gone and I'm not
particularly invested in
bringing back, but you keep
worming your way back into my mind
just when I think I'm completely-all-fine
and now I'm left with no
discernible biography
just my pride, wit and
anything to do with, well . . .
I guess I just don't have anything.
left to tell.

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