Awaiting to sleep the sunrise away,
            writing of my life.
     Punks buzzing past the sidewalk.
     Goths sitting on the curb.
     Rocky Horror Picture Show
            appearing on the stroke of midnight,
            as Cinderella runs home to her
            millionare boyfriend.
     And I sit here.
     Contemplating.
     Fidgiting.
     Thinking of the downers/
            the uppers of life.
     My life isn't so care-free.
     I wish it could be.
     I find ways to hide the meanings;
            Hide the paper.
            Filtered feelings.
            Fear in my hand.
     The monster beneath my bed
            will grab my ankle and pull me under.
     Back to where I started.
     Never stronger. Weaker.
     I don't know what my life is worth.
     Maybe just popcorn on the pavement.
     Great, my life is pigeon feed.
     But star-crossed love.
     The best.
     The strongest.
     And the adrenaline,
         the excitement,
         the thrill of being defiant.
     But things get old.
     Like the coffee in front of me.
     Cold
         from being deprived of my lips.
     The warmth of them
         leaving an outline on the white mug.
     Endless forbid of surrender.
     I drink to thee.

12/21/2001

Posted on 12/21/2001
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