Coping #3

I’m going to sit here and type.

I’m going to open tab after tab,

window after window of meaningless chatter

and elusive illusions of connection while I 

myself am distant silent disengaged

pretending that I am fine,

that I am not waiting for clouds to shroud the moon,

for that perfect tock of the clock just between 11:59

and midnight,

or some other such pathetic romantic notion of self-import

where the numbness can twist fuse morph 

into rage loathing hatred

into hopelessness sadness despair

into the gentle glint as the silver kisses my skin,

brings forth rubies.  



About thefreescribbler

My life is one of words. I am a scribbler, whose thoughts are best expressed through adjectives and phrases and punctuation marks. I would not go so far as to call myself a writer, although many would disagree. I’m characterized more by my unfinished works and half-embodied ideas, scraps of stories and parts of poems. Maybe one day I’ll be a writer, but I’m okay with being a scribbler right now. It fits my personality and style, and best expresses my aims. I’m not trying to create some lofty version of literature. I’m just a kid blogging about life. View all posts by thefreescribbler

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