I am so very good at feeling sorry for myself.
Crayon Boxes I think I have died That you no longer care if I live This grave could be unmarked, for all the people who look at it and know I am here I am hunched At my desk in my favorite sweatshirt The hood lined with orange And the sleeves frayed, worn I have worn this sweater for so many years, though loved it half as long The orange does little to cheer me tonight As I have searched your name and found a new addition to your fame An expansion of your being I realize the knife is still there Because I can feel it twisting, fresh, in the wound I smell that change in the sweet spring air and regret that I am not there. These rhymes are happenstance and agony. It has been so long since I have written here, had the charge to write here, and as always, it is of a tragedy My tragedy Like a forgotten war, Like a villager, killed by a despot, who is survived by a child who grows up dreaming of nothing but the tyrant’s death (I don’t even care to draw the conclusion) I have a thousand songs