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Where Else to Start But the End (Other) by cleverdevice It was upon the Twenty-Eighth of February this year
That I realised it was possible to die of boredom.
That day was a bleak one, cold, like steel;
I felt the wind like a dagger across my throat.
I could see no way to regain the sanity I once had,
For the lack of civilisation was driving me insane,
My echoing thoughts, driving me mad,
Whispering repeatedly, in the emptiness of my brain.
Those days are the worst.
I never looked for love as much as I do now,
I guess it never really appealed to me greatly,
But the longing to reveal and share it is so harsh upon myself,
That I sometimes wished love did not exist.
I wish I could say I do not envy the couples,
Whether they argue or not, they always will be there
For better, for worse, my way to say I love you is subtle,
For I will tell you time and time again I love you and how much I care.
Some people really rub it into your face,
The fact they are in a relationship that is,
And I wish I could shrivel up and die
As they enjoy each other, laughing, kissing,
I can only turn away in a mood so foul, Hell would freeze over.
Am I therefore destined to live life alone?
With no one there to comfort me in time of need,
To grow old with, to build a happy home,
These thoughts I could do without.
I wonder when I sit by her grave in the rain
Why she had to go, leave me, she wasnât old after all.
Not much of a life there to call a life by the time she died.
The ones you never appreciated the most are always the ones youâll
miss.
I wish I had tried harder to let her know how much she meant to me,
Now I will never be able to tell you because youâre gone
I wish I had told you, made you see,
Iâm sorry, but life goes on.
Well, how can you sum up a life worth nothing?
A pointless waste of time, not deserving,
A life of evil, corrupts, and fouls what is known as the pure,
But we canât refer to them as the white beings, because they arenât
anymore.
Shells of human carcasses lumbering around like plastic bags in the wind,
These are the things that are, that may be, and could have been.
One final note struck on the piano, and to tell my dearest that I love
her,
To tell her until the end of time, I will always love her, and to never
forget that,
For all the people I love, do,
They think Iâm joking,
But in your case, our, my case, my love,
It is true.
Up the ladder:
this pain
Down the ladder:
lNoOvTe
Votes: (green: user, blue: anonymous)
Arithmetic Mean: 6.3333335
Posted: June 21, 2004 3:31 AM PDT; Last modified: June 21, 2004 3:31 AM PDTWeighted score: 5.3585887 Overall Rank: 3338 The following users have marked this poem on their favorites list:
Comments:
[7]
Dovina @ 24.52.157.176
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21-Jun-04/5:08 AM
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Reply
Sadly true, some good insight. I'd call it free verse and look for ways to shorten it and cull the cliche, "Hell would freeze over."
I think you'd be inclined to believe a proposition like 'Where Else to Start But the End?' is right and self-evident because it sounds really cool.
However, if I said 'Where Else to Start But the Beginning?' you'd also think that was true, because it, too, sounds cool.
PS-Why did you set this poem on "the Twenty-Eighth of February this year"? Did you forget, perhaps, that this February had a 29th?
Most probably because it was written last year, and worked its way up form the mound of paper I have on my desk. It was a nice surprise to see it.
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