Those three unsaid words
crash like thundering bells,
ringing out past a silence that screams
"never coming back",
and it's a black morning.
I down two pills and I can make it
when I mix them with the vodka and my
ashtray coffee.
Sometimes I push the dregs about
to form pictures on my spoon.
Lately, all I ever see
is a grey-eyed smile reflected back at me
and upside down.
I learned today,
in the heat of a moment,
that I don't write real poetry.
"You have to feel it to be it,"
they told me,
and their laughter clamoured like bells.
I realized what I couldn't have.
It's too late to argue
and too early to sleep,
so we dance awkwardly on the maw of a disaster.
He told me that
Chaos
was a better word than his,
and I told him it was all I knew,
shrugging past a morbid curiosity to know his words.
I'm tired of letters that fall,
fall, fall, fall,
like the clang of a bell upon my ear.
-----
we were asked to write about bells today in english, using Poe's rhyme scheme. and I couldn't do it. So here it is, what I didn't turn in, but what I really should've written. But isn't that just what life is? Joy, to love, to chaos, to death. And all the mistakes betwixt.
