He has brilliant moments,
and tender ones -
the intensity of his mind
when he finds a word,
a poem, an idea
is intoxicating...
and when his lyric pen sways to write of me
it is all I can do not to give in.

His is a weighted line, though,
a lure for the feeling and uncautious -
sparkling and barbed.

He revels in self-pity,
willingly drowning
in what's wrong with the world, his life,
him;
empty words followed only by more empty words
as he is too afraid to dare
to change something -
afraid it might work,
afraid he'd have no more reason
to call in reservations
for Pity, party of one,
sitting with downcast eyes
in the hopes that I might pull up a chair.

I can only turn away,
equal parts remorse and distaste.

12/31/2003

Posted on 12/31/2003
Copyright © 2024 Amanda J Cobb