i'm writing poems
that never see the light of day
they're never quite enough
to get you out of my head
(i'm dropping 'friends' like pounds last winter.)
((it doesn't hurt like it should.))
i'm wondering
where real minds are hiding
where i can find them
and if they'll chat with me for 3 hours
about the development of a band's music style
and what it all means
about which lyrics link together,
and which ones are enough to be their own stories, alone, instead.
and about
if they won't hurt me
when i inevitably fall asleep on them
due to my lack of sticking to schedules -
sleeping times included
i'm waiting for my late-night
sit-outside-with-me
and my
it's-okay-that-you-breakdown-every-night
(even though it's not.)
((even though it'll never come.))
i suppose
an i-miss-you that will never be properly heard
makes good material for words strung together
on a screen
for the lonely few, who understand.
i'll never be a normal writer --
typical poetry doesn't click with me.
an analogy?
i play my music out of car radios,
for my sister, who is often with me
she often tells me
'it was good, but i didn't like it; kind of sad.'
i wonder if i've been broken --
or if i'm just unusual;
i find i like the songs, the words, the art
that makes me feel uncomfortable
because i've been moved.
they might be sad songs, stories, ink;
but i think they are art.
i hope that
though these are scattered words,
they could be seen as art
by one of the few real minds
i have written of earlier
i'm writing poems
that never see the light of day;
maybe because i tend to write
alone, at night
- d
