In the month that I popped a pharmaceutical drug to feel better,
I smiled for the first time in months
at a lame joke,
I stopped worrying
about where I was going to be
if the zombie apocalypse was to happen,
I ceased feeling terrified
of waking up to the voice of Joey Ramone
to not want to be or feel anymore,
I wondered how Hemingway felt
as he stared at the glittering city lights of the Rive Gauche,
typing down his dark thoughts,
I walked to the blinking white silhouette of a tiny person across the street,
without hoping that the cars would magically skewer to the side
and consequentially crush my skull in,
I felt my heart enlarging like a balloon, while I stared into
his magnetic eyes,
that remind me of the glistening candlelit lights of Paris
after the war,
I craved the chocolate ice cream
my imaginary little brother bought me
while annoying me,
I listened to the world
and heard it's rambles and jangles
and knew that "every little thing is gonna be alright",
and I watch myself in the mirror
to realize that I
this person staring back at me is a shell
enveloping in the shock at my utter disbelief
that I don't know who I am anymore.
Perhaps somewhere out there,
in a parallel universe,
wherein lies reality or fantasy,
I have already given up
and is watching me here
to mock me.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 1:29 AM UTC
In the month that I popped a pharmaceutical drug to feel better,
I smiled for the first time in months
at a lame joke,
I stopped worrying
about where I was going to be
if the zombie apocalypse was to happen,
I ceased feeling terrified
of waking up to the voice of Joey Ramone
to not want to be or feel anymore,
I wondered how Hemingway felt
as he stared at the glittering city lights of the Rive Gauche,
typing down his dark thoughts,
I walked to the blinking white silhouette of a tiny person across the street,
without hoping that the cars would magically skewer to the side
and consequentially crush my skull in,
I felt my heart enlarging like a balloon, while I stared into
his magnetic eyes,
that remind me of the glistening candlelit lights of Paris
after the war,
I craved the chocolate ice cream
my imaginary little brother bought me
while annoying me,
I listened to the world
and heard it's rambles and jangles
and knew that "every little thing is gonna be alright",
and I watch myself in the mirror
to realize that I
this person staring back at me is a shell
enveloping in the shock at my utter disbelief
that I don't know who I am anymore.
Perhaps somewhere out there,
in a parallel universe,
wherein lies reality or fantasy,
I have already given up
and is watching me here
to mock me.
I've decided to make this poem not flow in tone and rhythm. Unwise choice, I know, but I'm experimental and hopefully get some muse off this in a future date?
