Spoiler
Hey, you, listen up. I don't usually write poems, it's not really my thing, but I felt like writing one anyways. Why not, right? I doubt there will be many errors in punctuation, and if there are, they'll be minimal. What I'd really like an opinion on is how well it flows, and the imagery of the whole thing. I'd love some reviews - keep them honest. Thank you kindly.
Ti- Ti- Tock
Sometimes
I sit on a brown sofa
And stare at the ticking clock
That hangs above the dark mahogany desk.
Ti- Ti- Tock.
It doesn’t sound like a clock should.
I tell the woman in the grey suit
About the dreams I have at night.
I tell her how I dream of being struck.
Not by lightening, but
By bloodied fists and metal boots.
Of how I sometimes wake up
And my skin is a strange colour.
A colour it shouldn’t be.
She looks much too calm
When she writes her notes,
Analyzing me until there’s nothing left.
She doesn’t do her job well -
The dreams have never left,
And they never will.
They’re already burrowed too deep,
Like a sickness I can’t shake.
They usually come back
When the neighbourhood lights have dimmed,
Each time with more force than the last.
More discoloured marks appear,
Painted against papery skin.
Like a masterpiece turned sour.
Sometimes the woman sets down her pen
And looks at me wordlessly -
Stirring discomfort until it becomes
A usual scent of the room;
A personal perfume that the walls wear.
From the tops of thick glasses,
The woman fixates her gaze and asks
Her usual question of the day,
Why do you think you’ve been having these dreams?
I can see it in the way she purses her
chapped lips and in the way that she squints
Her cold grey eyes, scrutinizing.
She knows they aren’t really dreams.
But she never says so.
Both of us pretend,
Like children who don’t know any better.
And so, sometimes I tell the woman about
The dreams and we both act like
Everything is okay.
Dreams are just dreams.
But they aren’t dreams, are they?
