I wished that there were more
But there wasn't.
So what was I left to do
But wait, left wanting
You?
I wanted to stay,
But
I was wasting my time
For something that
I knew would never
Happen with you.

I must say that I tried
But all that was left
Was poor, diaphaneous poetry.
Words, penned on a page
Of obscurity.
All that is left now is
"When the hell can I leave this place?"
This malaise left behind.

There was such an air of nonchalance
That led to where, I know not.
I felt as if I were simply an inconvenience,
A moment in passing, less than a fancy,
The proverbial flavor of the month.
But the flavor was not even
The one for the day.
If I could run,
If I could hide,
I would.

So I write onward,
Scribbling words down.
Not knowing where
They will go
Or what I will do.

09/17/2006

Posted on 10/02/2006
Copyright © 2025 Joe Cramer