Closing eyes after closing time
A brown bottle stares back determined.
The buskers are singing in the streets outside.
The rain drifts sideways not obeying.
My little space warmed by a heater,
Its nearly four and
I
no nearer
Rest or comfort.
Oh, this soiled soul.
Poor me.
Only one to ever suffer their heart.
Poor pompous me.
The first ever to fall apart.
This origami boy tore so easily.
The singer continues to sing,
The rain continues to rain.
The little storm of no requite continues to haunt my little but warm respite.
I look sideways at the bottle.
Shall we dance again?
About the Creator
Mark R. Cieslak
Trying to tell some of the silly stories that crowd my head. Maybe you like one. If not its still cheaper than therapy.
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More stories from Mark R. Cieslak and writers in Poets and other communities.
A Failed Artist, A Disillusioned Poet, An Underpaid Game Show Host
I took my son and niece to Gori, a small town in Georgia where Joseph Stalin was born. They talked me into visiting the Stalin's Museum, the largest in the post-Soviet space. I had resisted going there because I just can't stand the monster and know enough about him, or so I thought.
By Lana V Lynx7 days ago in FYI
Comments (3)
Hi Mark - So glad I've just discovered your marvelous talent. By using the word "Buskers" I just want you to know that our 'Mutual' friend Rachel is teaching me 'Brit'~'merican translations - ProBono - But, I'm a slow learner...ask her! *I've subscribed with pleasure as I scroll through your eclectic presentations. Jay, Jay Kantor, Chatsworth, California 'Senior' Vocal Author - Vocal Village Community -
The wallow of self-pity and its erstwhile companion, alcohol. I like the tag "For fun". Wondered if there was something ironic there? I liked the way you poked fun at "yourself" which shows a self-awareness, even if it is a bit of a gloomy poem with the rain and the brown bottle.
A lovely little sink into late night lows.