Small shafts of light occasionally grace the corners of my room

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Brooding and not terribly good by any means

Submitted: February 02, 2008

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Submitted: February 02, 2008

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Small shafts of light occasionally grace the corners of my room

You’re all that I had left
That thread, that abused metaphor
And now I lay on my side
Shedding my skin in a dark corner
Trying to find a new act to call my own

I’d love to make this ugly,
To make this despair and bile
To say that I used you, your body
And once you were exhausted I trampled
On your grave when you fell asleep

What’s left but keys pounding their way
Through my sleep, memories that are just memories now
It builds and builds and I put on a nice charade
A marionette pulled by your hands

It’s bitter at the end of the line, we get off
And jump the next train to self destruction
But there’s no more trains pulling into the yard for me
All that’s left is a blinking light, you drive away and
As I fade, my silhouette becomes a red dot in space
Blinking… as if to call you back.

But that’s not enough, I’m not enough,
That sleepy metaphor has been cut
A lack of concern, a lack of remorse,
Just like everyone else.

Love is a tired cliché, love is nothing more
then a word that tries to enjoy its own company
As I lay in this corner, faint beams of light
Occasionally pass across my face.
They could represent hope or perseverance
But they represent you, and you’re not here anymore
And so I pull the blinds on yet another cold night.
Just another damned cold night.


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