PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Dear sylvia, I am sorry.

I have been feeling so good,

content with who I am, who I really am.

Maybe it is his hands, the drumsticks making me explode,

our voices making this music that is beautiful.

I do not want to follow my muses,

succumb to their abuses,

or anything of the sort.

Death falls short,

and I am alive.

Shit, sylvia, I think I am alive.

Maybe for this week, this month, this hour

but it counts.

I have realized that if he was somebody else,

there is no chance I would have loved him like I did,

because out of all of the people here, I only loved him.

I still do, but I want to let it go,

find another kid, and waltz on and on again.

I am.  Look to the little japanese man,

tell him to play, beat that silver drumset,

reviving my heart, it pumps to the beat,

the blood flowing.  I smile in my bed,

before I fall asleep, and I'm actually tired

because it is the exhaustion of being awake.

I am really awake.

Its a welcome break.

A very welcome break...

Dear sylvia,

stay away. I am alive.