Friday, May 29, 2009

A Cry For Help

I began to hate the night not so long ago
It was just before my unenthusiastic gaze met your face
And, though I felt what I was about to do was wrong
For both you and I,
I proceded
I sincerely damn the longing that is within me
And I am still not sure what it is for
The days when I had everything within my reach
Were the same days that I wanted none of it
Now that I have lost everything
I cling to the fabricated memory of what could have been
Every detail of what I could have been
I can smell the mold in the walls of the old house
Where I have so willingly, and yet unwillingly become imprisoned
I wish for the return of simple momentary things that were, not so long ago, docile in my palm
I have closed myself off from the world
When all that I long for from the very depths of me is a company
Is it any company that I pine for?
Or is it a particular being that I will to be near?
The house is empty, but for me
The sleeping dog gives no comfort, as he has no idea
All I see are me are the negative tool of internal and external destruction I could, at a set mind, employ... but, no
The silence has enclosed me and cornered me to a frightening place
And yet the ringer on the phone has been turned off
I am willing this ever further
This imminent departure
Yet the only concerns that I have are not for me
I have written the letters and shrugged away the apologies that I once decided would only be polite to give
I have realized, only now, the pointless logic of what has been pressing my mind
The very truth that things will only happen when all circumstances come into play at the right time
And every morning, the new light reawakens me
Only to fade with the dusk
Could I alter the path of this planet's rotation and keep myself in the sun's full view at all times, I would
If only to postpone, and possibly discourage this feeling
For, you see, as the night falls
With it recedes my confidence to continue
A twenty-four hour looping struggle that has had me weary up to this time
The romanticized books, meant to distract my wandering mind
Have served only to realize the lack of whatever is not here that much stronger
I have read ten to twenty 'I love yous' per chapter
I have seen the words there, plain as day
I have heard the words in my head over and over
Only to be reminded that they were not for me
And how strongly the desire stands to hear them
To crash recklessly into the body of whoever happens to utter them
And fasten myself submittedly to it
Still a child, I know
As it is blatantly obvious, now
That for all the eloquence of my sly attempt at convincing myself not to believe in something so irrational
I still feel the absence of its presence
There are people I could phone
But the only voice I could bring myself to listen to does not answer
I have seen why I loathe the darkness
My discontent for the evening grows larger by its every dark blossom
It is nights like these, uneventful, calm, and completely silent
That I can so clearly envision the accomplishment of what was set out to happen since the moment of my birth
There is a lack of interest, now, in my perch on this chair
In the clutter around me
In the people who have seemed, so willingly, to deny the persistence of anything wrong within me
Or perhaps my presence, altogether
And for all of this silence, I still feel as though I have said too much
A cry for help brings no help
When it is perfectly and pointedly composed

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