i’ve measured my life out in coffee spoons.
i’ve seen every morning,
in all the world what’s left for me?
books to write and none to read.
there’s nothing left for me to read,
except the headlines in the morning,
when i open up my door and read the sad news,
i have often wondered “can i take anymore?”
first things first.
are we better off alone, or are we worse?
for leaving early and going home,
writing painful love songs and little poems,
for no one but ourselves.
over china cups full of tea,
the couples whisper words of jealousy.
will eat you up someday.
through empty halls and cold staircases,
worthless talk and listless faces,
come and haunt me in my dreams.
over rusted hinges and window panes,
searching for a familiar face,
one i remember or recall
the fall of man
when you first
held my hand
i fell for you like the rain in spring
or a dead leaf falling from a tree.
im a wasteland on a foggy evening.
a little lonely bit of being.
being lonely never hurt me.
mr eliot, won’t you write me something
like from when you were young
and still in love.
please, write me something,
like you mean it.