Outside it rains, inside silence reigns
Safe for the irregular ticking beat
Of the typewriter absorbing my blows
Converting my anger and joy and sorrow
Into lines and lines of confessions
And pleas, please, pleas, please.
And my fingers wonder
If there are more silent rooms
If there is a noiseless guild of bachelors
Some crippled brotherhood
Aching for love, even those
They might have tossed aside like
Used napkins and empty bottles.
Are there more bodybags filled with regret?
Are there any more murderers of
True genuine love at large?
Speak to me, oh sisters, oh brothers
Tell me it is okay to be cruel, to be ah
Pathetic, to be alone.
Is this Friday, Saturday? What month is it?
What is the saddest day to be alone?
Suicide on Christmas is so unoriginal
And sobbing in the night is no novelty
Sitting at the beach has been done
And sad poets are a dime a dozen.
What am I then, but some image
So used it’s almost faded
What words do I use
Put together like an inventive child
Playing with building blocks
What new image do I make
What sentence do I give the world?
Your honor? No, it is my honor
To put this world, so large to one
So small for all, into some words
I judge with pen and repent
That my words are not enough
But it is not that I can’t
I just have to keep trying.
Ricardo Moran
paratextmag.com 