in a previous poem,
but on dreary nights
such as this,
when I return to old poems
with a gloomy music backdrop,
I relive those
feelings, those
thoughts, those
moments of futile sadness.
It is in those bleak moments
that I come to understand
why he wouldn’t want to talk to me,
the real reason I don’t care about prom,
the best course of action
in my social life.
Maybe I was meant to be
a scientific poet,
mixing physics equations
into verse
and observing love from
a cold neutron star
light years from the feelings.
Dead stars don’t care
if you’re awkward, or nervous,
or helplessly sad.
Dead stars don’t worry
and stand back when they see
your dark thoughts.
Dead stars don’t feel,
it’s as simple as that.
Dead stars don’t care,
can’t.
Should I accept that fate?
Should I step away from the scene,
float back to the star,
watch his movements
and never speak up?
Something keeps nagging
that I should,
telling me it’s best
but for once I can’t figure out
who it is.
Certainly not the heart.
And the mind is lonely
and bored
and overrun with hormones.
And the soul is
exasperated and sad.
The body’s voice is obvious,
if obnoxious.
So who is saying no?
Who bites my lip until it scars
and says “Never, never, never”?
There’s a part of me
that doesn’t want
to be happy.
I don’t write very well when I’m cheerful.
All my fantasies
are smeared with blood.
All my thoughts follow suit.
And my only dreams
are horror scenes.
I know that part,
wherever, whoever it is,
I know it is wrong.
So why do I listen?
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