Art Copyrighted Ashley Nichole Jones
How's Mine?
by Cynthia E. Jones
Mine aint as bad as yours man,
but its still killing me.
So what should I do man?
Maybe I should get up and...
and rearrange those dying flowers
in that crystal vase that Mother sent.
The one I threw up against the wall
you glued it back.
The water leaks and runs along the sides,
spilling droplets that let the light shine,
making rainbows over the back of the chair,
the one you sit in and lay back with ease
not giving a care ...while I yell.
I yell about how screwed up we really are.
I cry until I can not cry anymore
and I still do not know what to do.
Just give up?
Let the glue disintegrate into thin air
and the pieces fall apart
flooding, washing down over us,
all the pain of the past pent up
like a cage with no holes for air...
Stifling, stuffing, can not breath.
My wind pipe is disappearing,
crushing in as my chest tightens,
gasping, reaching for one shred
of evidence that I am real,
that I really exist.
Am I in a living nightmare?
Refusing to wake up?
Let me scream man
even if I can not wake up
the screaming is heard...
aint that something man?
Copyrighted 2005 Cynthia E. Jones
Labels: poetry
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Personal Poetry
Whispers.. Darkness.. Purple Moon.. Military Woman.. Red, White, and Blue..
He
Lives.. She.. Undead Chant.. Time.. Life Storms.. How's
Mine?..
My
River.. Leading Light.. A Father's Love.. Our Moon.. When Autumn Fades.. And
I Weep..
My Love Letter.. Untold.. Perverse... Unclean.. My Sanctuary.. In The Spring..
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