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Poetry By: Kyle Stead

Late night contemplation. I was going to keep this to myself, but ultimately decided to share.

Submitted:Nov 12, 2012    Reads: 40    Comments: 3    Likes: 3   


Cold, quiet, insomnia buzzed in my ear like locusts of Revelation

Pressed upon my existence

The room around me is dark, foreboding and threatening morning sun

Everyone around me must be dead, unless I am dead myself

Longtime suffering is no longer sympathetic

In the year of my thirtieth birthday, I embrace cold calculated silence

I listen to the blues. Edgar Allan Poe is my only friend

My middle name too is Allen; or is it Allan?

A common misspelling, anyway

I wish my name was Muddy or Sonny or Junior

I wish I had a past. I wonder if I am in the past

Time goes by; tick-tock, tick-tock

The blank page scares me

I stare upon it the same as I stare upon the future

I could write my own ending

Not a suicide of a single gunshot or a leap

Not romantic, but ugly and real

Not in words like "unsuspecting", or "He was a good man" or "We never saw it coming"

But more likely in words like masticated and malignant

"He smoked and drank with reckless abandon"

Insomnia is unforgiving

Insomnia takes with reckless abandon, never considering compensation

A force upon this earth

Like westward wind that carries smoke and smog

Innocent in motivation but deadly in its unrelenting force

Together with the wind, I am propelled towards the future, the truly unknown


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