PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Seventeen down, only three left.  He'd better space them out so that he will have a cigarette left for when he goes to sleep.  They had talked that morning, not another word since.  He had just been thinking about the words exchanged that morning.  He never noticed the sun sink well below the line of the mountains, much less it starting to rise again.  He only knew that he hadn't moved, he hadn't spoken since then.  Perhaps he never would again.  He stared blankly into an empty page of his notebook, trying to find the words to fit this nightmarish occasion.  He kept the doors closed and locked, and he had painted his blinds black, so that the sun couldn't possibly shine in.  He wrote by candle-light, something he had grown fond of.  He liked watching the flame dancing around, casting shadows that were always changing.  One thing that he still actually loved.

His words never came out the way that he wanted them to.  He had a notebook full of worthless thoughts that somehow made their way to paper.  In the corner was a trashcan filled with crumpled paper holding little more then half sentences on them.  His brain was hurting from thinking too hard, but that's what he liked.  That's when he got his best ideas; when his greatest thoughts surfaced in his mind.  He had purposefully gotten to this point of pain so that his next piece could be as well writen as possible.  The more he wrote, the more he cried, the more he cried, the more his brain was racked with this almost unbearable pain.  But to him it was worth it, anything would have been.

He finished writing and read over it.  Something was wrong, he read over it again.  "Two left" he half mumbled to himself.  "This will never do."  Lighting one of his last cigarettes, he begain writing again.  This was it, this was the perfect one.  This was the one that he would keep with him.  He folded it, put it in his back left pocket, and went to sleep.

When he woke up, he had dried tears in his eyes, another thing he had gotten used to.  They would soon be washed away with new tears.  He opened his darkend blinds, the sun almost blinding him.  He could feel his pupils recoil in fear from the sunlight.  The blinds were quickly closed.  He returned to his table and replaced the dying candle.  He had bought the ones that would burn for twenty four hours straight.  Just enough time for him to write and get a little sleep before starting his cycle over.  His head still hurt from the 'night' before.  He started writing again, soon his lachrymal glands were depleted once again.

He finished another, and another, and another.  All too well writen to throw with the rest of the papers now overflowing onto the ground from his trashcan.  They joined the first one in his back pocket.  Then he felt that he was done, that his day had been complete.  He took the papers from his pocket and read over them.  A smile came to his face.  It faded away as quickly as the blinds were shut earlier that day.  He took the sheets of paper, filled with his feelings and thoughts, and done what he had always wished he could do with his true feelings and thoughts.  He unfolded every one, and one at a time they met with the flame of the candle.  The flame growing, making the shadows dance even more then before, making him smile again.