deepundergroundpoetry.com

On My Own

The room was stilled with madness as the screen just told it all,  
There was no reason, rhyme or time to think of hidden walls,  
I reached out with such gladness, just thrilled to see her name,  
Simply eager-beavered me, hoping for the same.  
I'd tended to my wounded heart as much as could a man,  
I tried to bring a smile or two, at least that was my plan,  
I typed on one and then the other as writers tend to do,  
Until I found my typing was out-typing sexy you.  
I tried my best to not obsess, but damn if that worked out,  
I found myself just staring at my screens with such a doubt,  
Until I surfed around the lull and saw why I was boring,  
Apparently I was responsible for the other side just snoring.  
So I took some time to type away long winded explanations,  
Fuming in how true it was to lose your fascination,  
Sent it off and then wrote more still staring at the facts,  
Decided to ignore as well and started making tracks.  

It was a journey here and there with many things to see,  
Some seemed more than I could take, but then again that's me.  
So I decided in my heart, it's time to write a poem,  
After all it helps sometimes when you're typing all alone,  
Chose a site I felt would suit the eyes that chose to read,  
Where maybe all my typing could explain my inner needs.  
Hit send and then back to my task of how "snowshoes" should be spelled,  
Wrote a hundred words or so and wrote them very well,  
And thought back to where I began just typing to myself,  
Said what the fuck let's try my luck with the poem that I had dealt.  
And to my pure amazement, I saw it earned four smiles,  
Barely minutes after it had touched their hearts with style,  
I penned them thanks and went back to my snowshoes here in June,  
Shook my head just thinking how they all had answered soon,  
"At least a few find in my words a heart to listen to",  
And then I knew down deep inside what writing just can do,  
It is my form of therapy, a way to let it out,  
A way to see that what I say can be what it's about.  

Screw just surfing histories of the comments that were made,  
Screw their profiles and their poems and how the game is played,  
Screw the drama, screw the world, screw them upside down,  
Screw the whole damn thing I guess and screw this fucking frown.  
All I wanted was some time to be a priority,  
To feel that what I meant somehow was what she meant to me,  
And so I came to here to pen another fucking poem,  
Screw me trying to use both hands, I can do that on my own.
Rank_Amateur
Written by Rank_Amateur
Published
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