suddenly i feel like writing
searching for proof that i exist
but, alone again, i've no one to write for
so i wonder instead
would Coleridge - born a century late
or more - have joined Pathetic
as did we? or Cummings, alive today
would write instead
of Effie's head
on some nameless dotcom
(created for selfish men life me
who want to share their poetry
but rarely take the time to read)?
and sitting here pondering
i realize just how dark
the darkness seems
when your heart's alone.
and i remember a girl
(who i shouldn't remember)
who has a smile
that could warm a Rochester winter,
and slender hands that say so much
(but not to me).
songs fly randomly through my head
songs of love and loss
that i could listen to now
but that would only
keep me awake longer
and insomnia is contagious.

09/23/2001

Posted on 09/23/2001
Copyright © 2025 Gary Hoffmann