It is an effect of the long nights you kept,
the wrong thoughts you had,
the strong lives you’ve met,
the weak moments you gave.
It is an effect that gave,
you countless maddening thoughts,
countless sleepless nights,
empty desperate cries,
for help, for love, for loss, for longing.
Those blue skies,
you dreamt of,
since the last time you spoke,
your tangible thoughts,
your intangible words,
they give little meaning to me.
I know not what I feel,
I know not what I’m writing,
The criticism inevitably will point to lack.
A lack of ingenuity, of creativity, of strength, of character.
It is an effect of living this modern life.
– To You, The Humble Honest Reader, in a vainglorious hope that you shall not rip my piece to shreds.
The expected is what came.
What came to you in a flash of light.
When you know its going to happen.
A deja vu
You cannot help but ask why.
Why did it come to me?
I expected it.
Did expect it
Why is this poem even called The Expected?
The phone rang and I was thinking,
just before about something mundane.
Something material, Something that always becomes insignificant.
You know before the night falls
Just before they arrive.
I must be there!
I must make sure that this is not the end.
No, Never The End.
You expected it didn’t you? Didn’t you?!
If you did, then why are you being a little Puss.
A Puss which mews
She’s my grandmother.
So, I think I can officially say that the notion of joining the Civil Defense has sunk in. Its a strange combination of surreal, mixed with a tinge of fear, and complete and utter terror that I’ll look bad in the uniform of the SCDF. Oh yeah and the fact that after a week in basic, I’ll probably keel over and die. Literally, keel over, die… keeeeelllll, DIIIIEEE. Yes. I’m developing a flair for the dramatic, how sad. Living alone can do that to you. Hell, living alone can make you develop a love for the small things, the smell of the breeze, the taste of the water, the weird squelching sound you make when you slide around the sofa and yes, you even begin to think that this particular extended description is overused to the point of cliche isn’t even that sad! And reading that last line makes me think that I’m also losing my ability to write clearly and concisely. Exactly what Mr House keeps warning against. Oh yes, I’m screwed.
For those of you wondering, I’ve not been drinking (to drink alone that’d be sad), I’m not amped up on Meth, and no, the painkillers are just for the dull ache in my heart. Love Y’all!