Inauguration Day. Will it be the new dawn that the world has wished for?
Where did that hour go? The rattle of thoughts through my head has suddenly stopped. And they turn away from this place and to you. It’s now a little after eight in the evening – yesterday – where you are; you’re probably at work. And here we are again; I’ve caught myself thinking of you.
This sudden calm is foreign to me. My mind has been awash and now the din has been usurped by complete silence. I wanna scream. Weeks of wishing for this serenity end, and now I have the morsel for which I so covetously wished. Now what should I do with it? Talk about tearing away the fancy wrapping to find an empty package.
Damn you! All those things I wanted to say to you “if only I had the chance” and it all condenses into mash. I’m not kidding. My head feels like a giant bowl of mashed potato. No single thought segues into another. I mean I could just scrunch everything together and pray for something skeletally lucid, but you know me better. That’s not the way I roll. I need poetry.
There’s only one thing for it then: who’s hungry?
Where did that hour go? The rattle of thoughts through my head has suddenly stopped. And they turn away from this place and to you. It’s now a little after eight in the evening – yesterday – where you are; you’re probably at work. And here we are again; I’ve caught myself thinking of you.
Fancy that, me slaving away and there you are... thinking of me miles and miles away. Sometimes it's odd how things like that are reassuring.
This sudden calm is foreign to me. My mind has been awash and now the din has been usurped by complete silence. I wanna scream. Weeks of wishing for this serenity end, and now I have the morsel for which I so covetously wished. Now what should I do with it? Talk about tearing away the fancy wrapping to find an empty package.
Damn you! All those things I wanted to say to you “if only I had the chance” and it all condenses into mash. I’m not kidding. My head feels like a giant bowl of mashed potato. No single thought segues into another. I mean I could just scrunch everything together and pray for something skeletally lucid, but you know me better. That’s not the way I roll. I need poetry.
There’s only one thing for it then: who’s hungry?