Published March 4, 2006
Sick Day
3-3-06
Sometimes, I celebrated so long,
called to the heavens so loudly,
and danced so ferociously
that I thought the echoes could never die.
But now the echo is polished boots on concrete
walking up to me, in this cell,
and all parties are extinguished
because the commonality, the heat-sync of passion,
has learned that life hurts
too goddamn much to smile.
I see mediocrity everywhere.
Tell me that, against temples and libraries of expectations
any of our dances measures up.
Nothing really changes in this tedium called adulthood,
Hell, even these words are unworthy
of everything but my hatred.
*Later note; I cut the last stanza, and now this poem is the first part of a long piece I'm working on. I find very often thta I'll write a few poems over a period of a few days and find that they work best together. This is one of those situations, since this poem....definitely needed an ending, after cutting that stanza.*
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I have to confess that when I wrote this, I never thought I'd type it out. The last couple lines, about how awful it was, was just what I really thought. I generally do things like that when I'm embarrassed of what I've written in case anyone else reads it. I suppose if it really takes away from it, and these words are any good, those lines should be removed.
Perhaps that entire stanza. I felt like I was starting to ramble. Maybe that's why I hated it so much.
My head's spinning a little bit unhealthily at the moment, so I'll make this quick and come back to it: my first impression says very, very good poem (making pain/anger/etc seem new again) except for the last stanza, which is too obvious and why-have-you-bothered-to-say-this-we-already-know to my mind.
Back soon with more comments.