PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Whatever I speak becomes sentences
thrown out into the frosty winter wind.

A landscape of frozen grass that lingers
like a forgotten book once enjoyed.

I have turned these pages before,
and what's more,

I have coloured between the lines
in an angry sleep of resistance.

But it is always a waste of effort.

The perfect life turns into a jumbled
mixture of confusion and despair.

Realization is obvious, I am as content
as a ripped sheet tossed like garbage

into the junkyard of living.

Sitting in my living room, rooted
like a plant in front of my

television.

I can open my veins like the sainted
Romans of history.

Gather my friends and family around
me in a last orgy of denial.

Ocean and river full of my blood
as useless as the dying of

the meat prepared for dinner.

It irritates me that the phone rings
no matter what mood I am in.

Ignoring it, I cast my mind into
the snowflakes that are falling

outside the house.

Warm inside but cold in soul,
I enjoy one last memory, one

last statement of existence.

It is truth, hidden like a rock
inside the fireplace which

burns with the classic intensity

of forced laughter at a party.

I celebrate myself. It is my only
method of surviving.