Maybe I lost my will to live
under the pile of laundry I still have to fold,
the coffee cups scattered on my desk
or the unwritten calendars hanging on the wall.
Maybe it crawls between my dirty clothes,
collecting cockroaches and dust on the floor,
or it cries on piles of unsent papers
and shivers for the cold under the door.
Maybe Antonio's milky chocolates took it,
fuelling regrets with food I can't eat anymore,
in grateful memory of a love too young and pure
to last, rot and become old.
Maybe it's engraved on Lorenzo's vinyl,
it only lasts 2:30 minutes then it's gone,
like a boredom filled boy who dissipates
hungrily searching for another song.
Maybe Kevin wrongly dealt it,
all around the prison he comes from,
when you don't have it, steal it, I can't blame him
if his rings craved addiction more.
I'm sure Salvatore doesn't have it,
"I don't need it" I've been told,
he forgot his Marlboro under my pillow
filled with flowers, on purpose.
I think the ink of Rori's poems
grasped it from my soul and ripped it apart,
my room is a museum of all my past lovers
and I'm afraid of what I've done.
If I can't find it anymore,
I'll simply blame everyone else,
who left their items in my room
and then never came back.
Maybe I should clean out the space,
and throw away useless stuff,
but I would be different, I'm afraid
then my will wouldn't show up.
[ho odiato creative writing perché mi ha obbligato a mettere le maiuscole. tuttavia, ho scritto su bicchieri, piatti,
tovaglie e bottiglie di vino, quindi tanto vale pubblicare il tutto qui; come medaglia per l'impegno versato su un progetto che finirà dimenticato un un angolo della soffitta di Miss Borchet.]
YOU ARE READING
mausoleo d'amori
Poetryif i had a nickel i would use it to birbe my way out of 'creative writing 12' exams.
