PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

      Drying his long black hair as he came out of the bathroom, he started mumbling to himself as he so often did.  He found much comfort in himself and only himself.  He had learned that other people shouldn’t be trusted and that talking to himself was the only thing that could possibly keep him sane.  He looked up at the clock, 11:48, it was almost midnight.  “Not much time now” he said softly, as if whispering it into someone’s ear.  He finished drying his hair in front of the fire.  It was a cold November night and his dad was out of town on a business trip.  He had moved in with his dad after his parents got a divorce when he was ten while his younger brother, Adam, stayed to live with their mom.  He folded the towel and laid it on the end of the couch.  He sat down and took a large gulp of tea before putting the almost-empty cup back on the coffee table, on which his worn, black journal lie.  It was the journal he used to write everything that had happened to him for the last three years of his life.  He cut off the T.V. so that only the fire was burning now, casting lively dancing shadows around the living room.  After straightening the contents on the table and mumbling under his breath, he lit a cigarette and picked up his journal, turning it to the page he had marked earlier with his red bookmark.  He flipped through the later pages of the journal taking in the things he had written so long ago.  His eyes stopped at a specific line and immediately began to tear up.  He rolled up the right sleeve of his shirt and looked down at the circle of scars in the crease of his elbow.  He stared at the scars for a moment before rolling his sleeve back down and returning to his journal.  He flipped through the thick yellowish pages, reading parts of them as he did so, until he reached the last page.  He scribbled something down and laid the open book face down on the table.  He put out his cigarette and straightened the things on the table once again before lying back on the couch.  He slid the folded towel under his head as a pillow and pulled his dull yellow blanket up around him, staring at the ceiling.  He listened to the gentle rain tapping on the windows and the distant sound of a passing train.  He got comfortable and closed his eyes, thinking hard about what he had just read, reliving the last year of his life.