For a while now
I haven't written a thing
I've been dry
Like my mouth in the morning
Perched open for seven hours
With a NightGuard while asleep.
I've been dry
Like the latter part of winter
When the Holidays are no more
Than a hangover and a credit card bill
And the New Year's resolutions
Have already begun to dissolve.
It was my birthday recently
Blissfully ignored by most of humanity
And systematically forgotten by
Even more people than the year before.
And yet I managed to get
Enough gifts I don't need,
Enough books I'll never read,
And blank pages I'll never fill
To make me thankful that I weren't
Any more memorable still.
All I can say is
Thank god for Borders' no-gift-receipt
And so, that's where I headed
To scratch off some items from my Wish List,
A list that seems to function more as a
I got me a couple of books
So stale and overdue
They were already covered with dust.
I stacked them by my bed
To ward off the evil spirits
Brewing inside my head,
Hoping that in my sleep
I would somehow
Osmotically absorb them.
See, in my spree, I go for those titles
That seem to be just as ignored as I am
(Except, of course, that they're not).
I place Special Orders for them
And then never buy them
Just as a Holiday Gift
To the poor authors I'll never become.
I feel sorry for myself this time of year
(More so that I do the rest of the year),
I feel homesick and cook
Wax ornaments of family pictures and songs
That I proceed to ridicule
Before somebody else does.
I know I am petty
And most of my poems begin with me
And end with me
And don't waver much in between;
I know I am jealous of a cat
And... Well, I'll spare myself the rest.
And I know this is the part where
The Poet imparts her Big Revelation,
Her rancid Pearl of Wisdom;
But I have none.
I am lazy,
And have Christmas Shopping to do still
And I don't even have a smart way to end this.