Boyhood: ( Insert fond memories and/or nostalgia here. )
And then I turned twelve.
I don't remember
being this tired as a kid.
I'd stay up for days
at a time, but with fourteen hours
I'm more tired than ever.
"You used to be so happy."
I might as well be in the grave,
with that one, for I'm too far gone --
at least then they won't see my
quivering smile
( I used to be a prodigy,
in acting, that is.
I used to be so good,
they wouldn't believe their eyes.
Awards just beyond my grasp,
encores and bravos and bouquets,
all for me.
For my performances. )
and dead eyes.
No, the ground above me will be littered with:
rotting flowers desperate for a cloud,
pictures of when "I used to be so happy,"
ornaments from that time
about to be stolen by a thief of some sort.
And they'll wish for an encore,
they will,
( I hope they will.
[ What if they don't? ]
{ Please don't... }
-- )
But I've already exited the theater,
off to some pub or alleyway
to slug a shot
( or two, or three, or four, or fiiiive, ros ix, o r vense)
of vodka,
for inspiration or celebration,
( to feel something,
to feel anything, )
before I return tomorrow
for the matinee.
"It's a boy!"
"Time flies!"
"What happened?"
"My beautiful, beautiful boy!"
And then I'm gone,
and I'm --
YOU ARE READING
Contrast
PoetryA 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...
