Poem: This Is My Dead Song
Author: Harper Kingsley (Did I write this one? How weird)
There are times when I wonder what love tastes like,
thick and salty like life blood or watery like weak tea
slurped out of saucers like some old-fashioned coffee guru,
sure that I’m a trendsetter and destined to be adored.
I walk through a waking dream of voiceless strangers all clamoring for my attention
faceless masks that I look through and ignore, inconsequential to my task
my living dying dream.
What is real? Do I start where I begin or am I racing toward the end?
Who knows. Who cares.
I live alone amongst crowds of people,
all breathing and sucking down the air I need, polluting it with the halitosis of their doubt in me.
I am a loser born and bred, dreams crushed under other peoples’ boots until I cease to share.
I’ve clammed shut with only the ridges in my shell to show
while I hide in the deepest water I can stand
wondering when I’ll begin to drown.
Lilting melodies of sunshine and hope have long since quelled themselves,
leaving only hopeless durges behind,
ringing out into my lonely silence, bell-like and broken, monoliths to the lost ideas of love.
I sleep alone in shadowed panoply, dreaming of gold while grasping at dust,
sure that no one can see me even in the most packed of rooms.
I fade to motes and echoes as expression washes off my face,
leaving a seamless mask behind.
