Four days worth of home-cooked meals
carefully packaged
remain untouched
I pick up another chocolate bar and begin writing in my journal
And he who only cares for art that praises
the glory of his culture
his history, and his nation
will find nothing in these pages worth reading
the wrapper hits the floor
I am not finished and
I have found no solace in my writing this time
I go to visit a friend in her room
and she has another friend over
and I try to force down some of the food that is offered to me
and I try to remain silent but
the other friend asks me how I am and so
I let loose a whole string of words
and none of them make sense
and I want desperately to be understood
and he just smiles politely
I know I've made it awkward
and when I leave I'm left thinking
how I made a fool of myself
The city outside is dreary
the frosty wind hits my face
it cuts through my skin
it chills me down to the bone
the sky is grey
the outlines of buildings, black
and my hair is matted
and my clothes are ragged
No comments:
Post a Comment