Are the gods displeased?
Oh let this be the reign
to purge the diseased.
Winter’s grey on a winter’s day,
I shot a man in a winter’s fray.
He’s buried now at my winter stay,
Beneath the children in winter’s play.
This is the poem I am most proud of. It came to me suddenly one morning, and I absolutely love it.
I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not ugly. I’m a fairly good looking person. But it does get a bit old when people like your personality but drool at the “cuties” and “hunks” that walk by. And I’m left feeling as though I lack some physical quality.
Or maybe I just want to be wanted. The question is why don’t they want me. Hm.
n. the amniotic tranquility of being indoors during a thunderstorm, listening to waves of rain pattering against the roof like an argument upstairs, whose muffled words are unintelligible but whose crackling release of built-up tension you understand perfectly.