Repeat
It makes me cry
as I sit here
listening to the same song on
repeat,
trying to find inspiration
in something that
doesn't mean anything to me.
I feel anger as I
let my eyes see
these photographs,
blurred and only a memory;
they seem so fake compared to this
concrete world.
And I am only frustrated
how every day I let these old times
slip into my thoughts,
become apart of me.
It annoys me that all these readers
will stare in confusion
at these lines and lines
of supposed poetry
and simply brush a wisp of hair
out of their weary eyes,
and then let their purple curtains
gently rustle their hands
as they close them
and put these words
out of their head.
It makes me cry when
I realize both my
fingers and my mind
forgot how to dial your phone number
that I used to have memorized
like this beautiful song.
But no one would answer
anyway.