Rings of Smoke

These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis.

summer

Posted on | June 14, 2009 | Comments Off

the heat,and the dullness of the afternoon,
the too-slow moving fan and the still wind,
and the dirty socks fallen in the messy room,
sometimes,they get on my nerves,
on idle sunday afternoons,
the room,empty-no,vacant;
seems just as forlorn as the afternoon street,
empty,quiet,and burning with its own rejection,
sometimes,the summer heat gets on my nerves…

stifled inside those open windows which admit no wind,
i sometimes angrily sit down on the bed,
filled with a nameless frustration,
an anger,probably directed at myself,
i take the plastic water bottle and throw it at the wall,
and it hits,exactly at the spot it hit last night,
like an infinite sense of deja vu…

like the poems i write,life seems to have become,
purposeless,straining to say something,
meandering,weaving and painful,
but futile.

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