I Live A Lifeless Life
A piece of blank paper blows down the sidewalk,
rustling among the forlorn leaves and past the melancholy puddles,
it exists vacuous, hollow, lost drifting in the wind,
a slave to the breeze of contrary fate.
I can sympathize to such an insipid existence.
More than anything I want to rush down the street after it,
to run until my sides hurt, till the sound of my lungs and stammered breaths drown out all the pain in my head,
I want to catch it, to hold it, to fill its emptiness.
Perhaps I yearn to chase it in attempts to fill my own vacancies,
wishing for something to snatch me up and steal away my anguish.
And so I lace up my convictions and attempt to pursue.
Over fences turned dark cages, past abandon places our hearts once called homes, down side streets and alleys longing to find it.
And when I come upon that scrap of paper quivering in the zephyr of the summer air.
I cradle it in my hands and find a shaded spot to sit as I attempt to summon for somewhere deep within me something of worth to write upon this paper.
In time the leaves change, flowers close up, and days grow shorter.
Yet still, I sit here holding the pen, paper blank as ever, Its indifference hurts me,
I want to help yet it just sits there silent offering no support or aid,
it is cold and uncaring to my plight, yet why should it be any different?
I sit here looking into the void as it looks back at me.
Does the paper pity me?
From where I sit only one of us is tearing itself apart trying to help the other. While one is just waiting for the wind to pick back up to carry it on its journey.
I feel if I could just pour my heart out maybe id be carried off as well.
I write “I'm sorry” upon the page and let it be on its way before the snow comes.
rustling among the forlorn leaves and past the melancholy puddles,
it exists vacuous, hollow, lost drifting in the wind,
a slave to the breeze of contrary fate.
I can sympathize to such an insipid existence.
More than anything I want to rush down the street after it,
to run until my sides hurt, till the sound of my lungs and stammered breaths drown out all the pain in my head,
I want to catch it, to hold it, to fill its emptiness.
Perhaps I yearn to chase it in attempts to fill my own vacancies,
wishing for something to snatch me up and steal away my anguish.
And so I lace up my convictions and attempt to pursue.
Over fences turned dark cages, past abandon places our hearts once called homes, down side streets and alleys longing to find it.
And when I come upon that scrap of paper quivering in the zephyr of the summer air.
I cradle it in my hands and find a shaded spot to sit as I attempt to summon for somewhere deep within me something of worth to write upon this paper.
In time the leaves change, flowers close up, and days grow shorter.
Yet still, I sit here holding the pen, paper blank as ever, Its indifference hurts me,
I want to help yet it just sits there silent offering no support or aid,
it is cold and uncaring to my plight, yet why should it be any different?
I sit here looking into the void as it looks back at me.
Does the paper pity me?
From where I sit only one of us is tearing itself apart trying to help the other. While one is just waiting for the wind to pick back up to carry it on its journey.
I feel if I could just pour my heart out maybe id be carried off as well.
I write “I'm sorry” upon the page and let it be on its way before the snow comes.
31-35, M
