A Pair of Dismal Poems

The sun has gone. It can't be
Blamed for killing off a wretched
Day. The clock has ticked and
Ticked. The time has passed
With almost painful slowness.
Somewhere, she is doing
Something. Here, I wonder
What she does. I doubt I'll
Ever understand the pressures,
Call them circumstances, which
Have made her what she is, or
Seems: someone who loves
My love, but cannot be seen
Close to me, and isn't close,
If that would mean she'd love
The man who brings the love.
She seems to have no use for
Me, except as something, a
Container, that delivers what
She needs, and I've been
Brooding over this. The
Clock has ticked. The day
Is dead. I do not blame
The sun.


The anger and the pain, which
Are the biggest parts of what
I am, will show themselves from
Time to time. The brittle smile
Disappears. The mouth will
Howl from all the hurt. The
Eyes will cloud. The synapses
Behind them will begin to quake.
I cannot merely give you love.
My forehead craves a soothing
Hand. My shaking body seeks
A body, yours, to bring it, calm,
To bed, to resurrect an ancient
Feeling; I can't recall what it's
Called. I only know it's opposite
Of anger, and of pain.




Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 54 times
Written on 2015-02-13 at 03:33

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