Poetry

I wish for a day where my dreams do not change for each day of the week.

But perhaps I do not.

Because some days I wish for a future where I am always busy something, in a city that sleeps even less than I do.

Based of of the poem "This is just to say" by William Carlos Williams.

I have drank 

the tea

that was on

the counter

and which

you were probably 

steeping

Her name was Violet, 

but she always wore yellow. 

I spied her from across the room as I hesitated in the sun-framed doorway, and she was beautiful. 

I’m put in a box

Here I’ll stay, as from the edge

I was pushed away

I’m angry, I’m furious, I’ll try to let it out by complaining,

by venting, by ranting, maybe to one, two, or even three people.

I sit in the corner, listening to the conversation,

started like it was just breathing to them,

I want that, but my heart doesn’t yearn as much,

or maybe it yearns infinitely more.

I sit in the corner, cradling a book, 

or laptop, or phone, or nothing at all,

I sit in the corner listening to the hum of chatter,

I focus on different voices,

I don’t care,

I’m failing all my classes, my life

I have tasks to do,

two of them, three, four, I’m buried

The weight is crushing me,

I open my eyes, glancing around me,

the world is dripping with shades of grey,

my glasses have disappeared.

My eyes are open, the rose is gone,

The pristine white sheet burns into my eyes,

blank, like the thoughts in my head,

It’s daunting, mocking, empty.

I want to be able to do something, anything,

The ball kept rolling,

Spinning in circles,

Spiralling up the tree,

Again and again. 

The cycles never finished,

I’m scared I’ll keep on standing at a grave

of someone who isn’t dead.

That i’ll miss you forever 

even when I know you won't,