It was give or take an hour post my pathetic attempt
to feel something.
Something other than the usual.
Rather than simply existing,
I felt as if I could try living.
(mental note: refrain using anymore cliched sayings)
I put on a pair of shorts,
a t-shirt that i bought last summer
on that vacation we went on,
and a jacket.
Don't ask me why I put on the jacket,
I couldn't've told you.
Once I reached the front door
to the rest of the world,
and placed my hand on the doorknob,
I stood there for a moment.
So close to everything -
the hand-holding,
the lip-grazing,
everything.
All that separated me?
A four inch thick piece of wood.
Anything and everything
still mystic
to my eyes,
my ears,
my mind -
simply a turn-of-a-knob away.
Encouragement whispered to me,
fear shouted ruthlessly.
It was easy to ignore the
encouragement's cries for attention
when being so furiously
attacked with angst.
My other hand,
the one not deciding
whether or not to live,
clutched itself.
Perhaps the harder
I tighten my hand,
the more tension would rush there.
Out of my chest.
I thought.
I foolishly thought.
The next morning
I found myself
back where i had started,
at 1:43 ante meridiem -
being uncomfortably hugged
by the parched air
circulating
in my perfectly meager
white walled room.
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شِعرA collection of tragedies of sorts, of demons or angels (whatever you'd fancy to call them) that lurk and/or gleam in my mind. Written when the moon's dreary and the sun's near awakening. Obnoxiously metaphoric, subtly inspirational. © Jake Sullivan...
