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She only calls me when she's sad; Poems
Topic Started: Oct 14 2012, 08:33 PM (60 Views)
Sussuri
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She only calls me when she's sad.
by Gordon Michael Alexander Clark

There was snow in my dreams last night,
I remember there was snow and
of remembering to remind myself that
this is but a dream.
There will be no day off work today.
I resume sleeping, I doze off
and finally lose myself to the cold night air
that caused me to dream of snow
in the first place.
I wake up around six, I go for a run
I feel like shit this morning,
but I need to run.
perhaps I'll sweat what ever this
is out of my system,
I could probably call in with the
fact I'm getting laid,
because I already used up all my alloted
sick excuses for the year.
My boss would buy that story
like he would a sick call,
He's been to my poetry readings
he know's I'm not in-love
and there fore not having sex,
I debate whether or not I should lie
to my boss, for about an hour.
My thoughts and internal struggle
blocking out the screams of my shin bones
splintering in small micro-pieces
with every step I connect against the
pavement,
the hell fires scorching my my recovering
lungs labored and taxed to its fullest
capacity
eventually I decide if I want to run this
shit feeling out of my system,
then 'lol it' I may as well work it
out of my system too.
Around 7:30 I get a ring,
and I like at the call display and
I realize that the snow in my dream
did not symbolize the fact
I wanted a day off,
and it didn't mean that feel like shit today,
because I am getting sick.
Intuitively I was psyching myself
up for war,
a long, cruel and hard winter
is in the forecast.
For I love this number,
I live for this call,
when I think who is behind
this phone I think of all that is right
with the world,
I think of regret, I think of sexuality
and of dancing for the first time
and then never again.
I remember drinking, and blacking
out with you in my arms.
Waking up unsure weather it was
your vomit or mine on my sweater.
You were wearing my sweater,
why 'the lol' was I wearing
your sweater.
I looked towards the table
where a burnt candle stump
and a typewriter ink stained table
had cards on it
beer and quarter, half,
and near empty liquor bottles
lay a hazard waiting to happen.
There is macaroni salad stuck to
the ceiling and clothes littered on
and among the mismatched
dining room chairs.
We played sociables last night.
I remember the pain,
and the reason I write poetry
I remember the hate
and how after all these years
there has not been one person
I have loved more than you
how as loled up as you are
and as you willl always be
and I am far more superior to
you in every possible way,
inspired to be better than
the squalor and debauchery
that our life amounted to.
I could still yet relapse
into your arms right now
and not think anything less
of myself for it.
I quickly choose to be happy,
I am in a good place in life,
I can achieve all my goals in
10-15 years,
I need to take care of myself
right now,
I don't want to hear for the
millionth time what her issue is,
give her advice she doesn't want to
hear.
So I ignore the ringing,
finally turning off my phone
and think to myself
the title of my next poem is
going to be she only calls
me when she's sad.
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Sussuri
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I know it seems a bit harsh in some places about her, but she was bad for me and enabled the darkest days of my life. I had to get out of that situation and leave her behind to heal. My greatest prayer is that one day she will want to be better to. =( :)
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