Part 6 of extended poem.
6
OH! When they find me,
wrapped in sheets and sheets of notebook pages!
Laying in the stale soil,
the deep ground naked except for the pages upon pages,
the paper, patient and warm, somehow welcoming,
somehow home for my pen and my thoughts!
Oh! When they find me I hope they cringe and vomit,
naked on the lawn, such a sight,
so blunt it'll be; as if it hasn't been in their faces all along!
Laughter is wicked, poetry is naive,
the helpless scream for escape by bleeding on the page,
strangling the lines for some hope,
that's me! Oh!
Little surprise, really,
it's too bad they'll see too late,
too little, too much, helpless and awed,
hide your children, fret and fear,
watch the wicked waste away on the lawn.
Is it so?
It's too late,
the clock taunts us all,
the sky flashes and flaunts its eternalness,
the sun and the moon in a never ending chase,
the seasons rotate and the waves continue to crash,
the stars all fall but remain uncountable,
the forests burn and tumble but never cease,
the deserts shimmer endlessly,
the lakes lose life but never lose hope,
the sky coughs at the pollution but never chokes,
the glaciers melt but always wait,
the world spins;
our fate remains the same.
Somehow I feel less sad,
some sensation, somewhat serene laying there naked under pieces of paper,
waiting blankly as the world passes by and watches and gasps,
we're all blank in the end,
helpless and fragile,
laying on the lawn,
Oh! that's me,
always ceasing and giving up.
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