I was listening to
the voice
inside the bedroom
all around me.
broken dishes
broken fingers
and broken promises
he whispers to me
silently with a hint of
sarcasm in his
weathered voice
"forget it all
im about to forget
it all"
too tired to reply
too sick to even care
too bored to remind myself
forgeting
is almost as good
as forgiving
"you're a poet"
he said
i shook my head and laughed to myself
what is a poet
am i living in rhyme
or manuevering my speech patterns
into
sonnets
that noone really
truly
understands? Do i just
bore people until the agree with me?
"anyways" he says.
"I'm a poet too,
but im beginning to forget about you.
so there goes that idea."
4:43 pm - Thursday, Jan. 02, 2003
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