Songs At Midnight
hell bent on hillsides,
alcohol seeping from my skin come
Monday Morning alarm clock joy.
young, and up all night, drunk, more so than not
and only in love with myself.
narcissistic pessimism: big words overheard in clouded classrooms,
always wanting what I don’t have and horny,
drugged in translucent self reflection methamphetamine at sunrise,
six AM jazz.
but no one listens to jazz anymore, except in cars alone in darkness,
trees forever passing along roadsides,
low hum of distant trains,
hazy moon hanging above two empty bridges,
the choice of only one is troubling.
decisions are gruelling like offices and pay checks.
i’m a mess, the trumpet says, I hate myself, sings
the saxophone riff, my head hurts as
the drums hit, symbols wailing, clashing,
altogether in beautiful harmony.
starlight glow, swaying through meters
of time, roads carve along
sharp edges of thought, clear,
concise, and reliable people going to
work, dreams of offices and pay checks,
and I begin to sing along, off time and out of tune.
imagination of the outdoors and freedom,
never growing up past my bedtime, hide and go seek
I hope I’m never found.
Copyright © Frank Greene | Year Posted 2016
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