deepundergroundpoetry.com

Passive

I might've told you a story
if it wasn't today and I wasn't spent of all thoughtful meaning.
I could've wandered, up and down your corridor, study, general area spouting my sound to a one man crowd who has already
pressed mute.

Instead I'll roll another cigarette and make a pot of coffee,
hope to God that the fruit and yoghurt last night pay off.
I'm sick of looking in the mirror, it never gets thinner
or closer to the woman I wish I could be. I make a formal request for a circus mirror.

See, I'm five foot six, no less and no more. (Stopped growing a while back due to smoking.)
I've a sore spot for vanilla and double cream
and these bones continue aching, though the doctors say I am fine
and I stare at nothing in particular                     for hours.

This is my accomplishment, boredom squared
and divided by fleeing moments of better times
and subtracted with parts of my sanity. I am
sat, a bag of bones,                stuck to a chair.
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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