deepundergroundpoetry.com

The Self

Please don’t speak.
I, myself, am too tired for
words,
the words that hang from our cream curtains
and roll from my lit cigarette.
We never have enough time
to say
what we need to say
when I’m too scared to extend the time.
See, I refuse to hear the distance between
you and I, can't handle it.
The cruelty lingers in my eyes
and I look at you,
so deadly and
so selfish,
pale as the full-moon light.
Metaphorically, you hold on
from your dusty, single road,
if only it exists and
I would stop to appreciate it’s
existence
but I’m too weary
to take the time.
Refusing to hear the ghouls sobbing in
reflections
of you and I takes an awful lot of energy.
That’s why
I wouldn't wake you
when it is too late to cry, when you know
it was my choice
to let such self-sufficient love
cremate itself
in our homely funeral
and finally I say
"Can we just sleep tonight?"
because I've worked seventy-nine hours this week
and it's all too much for me.
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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