By: Blair Hill
I feel the cold in my bones;
it makes them feel like knives
bursting out from my rib cage.
Luckily, I’ve got some extra padding.
The bright red veins creep onto my eyes,
like I've plowed through a pool of chlorine.
The cold makes my eyes pulse in time
with my faltering heart.
I uselessly cover my mouth with my hand
as the smell of cigarette smoke embraces my nostrils.
I hear the residual pulse of the music from the indie bar next door;
it sounds like helicopter blades, piercing through warm summer air.
I see couples dissipate for the evening,
returning to their matching sweater, sitcom homes.
The insides of my throat ignite as I taste my bitter coffee;
it becomes a California forest fire during its yearly drought.
A sensation, however, may be more than what I can express
in a single sentence,
on a single page,
or in a single lifetime.
I ponder the intricacies
of poetry and life.
Life is not as simple as a poem.
Or is it not as complex?
Will I ever be able to write another line of poetry
or am I destined to listen to the sounds of other people living
their lives for the depth of time?
Edited by: Amanda Melfi