The First Time
The first time I blew up,
I was in love... taken by surprise,
when she walked trough the room
had all those boys' heads turn to her,
it was her voice, which lit the fuse to my
explosion,
like a firecracker on the 4th of July.
The first time I fell in love,
I was heartbroken,
sick and tired,
my head pounded,
my heart faint, skipping beats,
my brain was rusty and dead.
Emotions ripped me apart,
and drinking and smoking
and living life and poetry all came to me.
That's what killed me.
The first time I wrote poetry,
I was lost,
I was down,
I was gone,
I was soundless,
I was metaphoric,
as the grass grew over graves
of the silent dead,
and the living dead walked of to 9 to 5 jobs;
I sat at home,
a pencil in hand ready, steady on a piece of scrap paper.
The first time I wrote a poem,
I felt myself die...
The second time I wrote,
I died even more...
with puffs of cigarette after cigarette
and swig of beer and red wine after swig and gulp after gulp,
I kept on going,
dying, but writing and living at the same time.
The second time I fell in love,
I died even more,
ten times harder I fell,
and one hundred times harder I died.
But I wrote more and more and more,
better too.
One after another, I wrote and soon found myself,
with all these meaningless words on scrap sheets of paper.
The first time,
was the last time,
and I think I've found a calling in life,
something to keep my mind of suicide for a couple more days,
and my lips away from the bottle.
Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2014
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