Saturday, August 14, 2010

a poem written by a faust in eleventh grade







eleventh grade

(or, on days like this, at times like these)

the creases between my eyebrows
refuse to go away now
i used to believe in my -
self -
but forgot how

faith died with romance, but
melodrama
was last seen, quite alive,
with no one that i know

and it seems i can't turn pain into pleasure anymore

insatiably i hunger after each hour
but the days pass as quickly as before

reason has left
me the need for reasons but
blissful ignorance is
all-too-rare;
the creases grow and even 
though i want so much to, still,
i am unable
not
to care.

©1982, rev 2010
































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