I don’t think I’m quite here, anymore.
The mind is a sinister thing. It plots
And simmers, and gives no clues. It
Writhes, tormented, thrashes, wasted.
A grassy hill after a hard rain, a pool
Deck on a busy afternoon,
Black ice on the road, lotion on shaved legs,
Tears on your cheek, lies on your tongue,
Wind through the leaves,
Water through your fingers.
I think my grip has gone and lost itself,
(Silly thing. I still need you!)
And suddenly, it’s two hours past midnight,
And I’ve school in the morning,
And the rain is as haphazard as passion,
And May has drowned herself.
And Virginia has drowned herself.
And Ophelia has drowned herself.
What a terrible idea. Better to be quick
And efficient- water is for purity,
Rebirth, life. Water is not for death.
Guns are for death. Quick, easy
Death. Loud, bloody death.
Hard, deathly death.
I’ve lost the war. I’ve lost the war.
I’ve lost the war.
Sometimes I smile and dance
(The world is a paradise),
But then, I slip.
Copyright © Little Sperling | Year Posted 2017
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
to post a comment