Worn from the Weather

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
i'm a little worn from the weather.

Submitted: July 01, 2008

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Submitted: July 01, 2008

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inspired by "The District Sleeps Alone" by The Postal Service.

you check your mirrors twice
and see the hordes of your
forgotten teddy bears and lovelorn raggedy annes.
somewhere in the backseat are the clothes
of another dignified one hour fling.
your eyes are bleary
and your heart pounds in your forehead.
you wear flopsweat and sunglasses
like they're the newest fad.
i always found nonchalance so attractive.
i'm sure there are others too.
i've got a pocketful of cherry lollipops with dashes of lint
and a ragged snapshot of a lost moment of
smiles and wrinkles in the creases of your eyes.
and I miss your crushed velvet voice
against my aching ears.
and I know that you can tell
from the way I say hello
and the smile I fight to form
that I'm a little worn from the weather.
a convoluted crack crawls down my stone granite facade -
a distinguished line of
unhappiness and failed group therapy.
my black sunsets and blue mornings
seem more familar than you now.
and maybe the spiders in my head
are busy weaving again
but i can't seen to shake the feeling
that maybe you're the wrong person.
because your lips aren't as soft as they once were
and the half-formed half-meant words
that you utter in comfort
seem so insincere.
honesty was always your forte
so maybe i'm channeling a broken spirit.
the green flourescent light twinkles merrily,
the northern star to the white sea of sky
that hangs constantly over me.
i wrote these words, big and black,
and bleeding from this stark white page
safe underneath thin cotton sheets
because the safety scissors didn't slice through all your bullshit;
they didn't hurt enough.
god, i miss the spark of reality
i used to hear within your offbeat melodies.
honey-coated dulcet tones and bouncy ringlets
just don't hold their old-fashioned merit
when you keep your lips busy and your hands busier.
you're an angel only to the devils
you meet in pubs and bars.
maybe my home's a prison
but my freedom tastes so good
while yours tastes like salt
and reeks of sweat and shame.
drink down the testosterone, baby,
it was good while it lasted, but
i miss the warmth of your life the most,
so i found a new hiding place,
beneath pursed lips and hardset frowns,
riding the shining gleam of overdue tears.
things have changed and well,
i'm a little worn from the weather, it seems.
but maybe that's all for the better.


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