[one hundred, twenty-three]
solemn, as if glued to the floor,
I was trying to leave but shadows blocked the door,
I was screaming at heaven, but wishing for hell,
and only then did I hear the bell,
I thought it was you so I opened my eyes,
let the light in and listened to lies,
they flew, they frollicked,
I caught them with my net,
and tied them up in packages so I wouldn't forget,
although it isn't much I saved up a dime,
and pushed it in the mail slot for a minute's time,
it hit the floor with a crash, I heard,
you pocketed that too,
In the morning I was still standing in the hall,
you shouldn't have called,
since I listened I repressed and took it as a sign,
to turn off the lights, and begin to remind
myself of the time,
where life was sublime,
without thinking of the things that pass through the shadowed front door
focus: rhyme, lack of strucutre/pace, saying the same thing in every stanza
felt like poetry today, anyone surprised? I am...it sucks, I know, because it didn't take me long to write. I hate writing poetry because I suck at it, but, whatever.
Jess :]
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