Countdown

Factor in the increased pulse, carry the seven-eighths and that gives me… one minute, give or take a few seconds. The exact number’s not important, especially since I’d lose half the time while computing it, and then I’d have to factor out that time, and by then I’d be dead, and I don’t want to die computing when I would die. But the numbers wont stop flowing.

I’m down to forty-seven seconds now. I can’t help but wonder if it was worth it. Of course it was, wasn’t it? What did my life matter anyway? Thirty-four seconds.

Last words. That’s probably what I should be thinking about. They’re all staring at me so expectantly. I can’t disappoint them, but then, what do I care. After all, I’ll be dead. Twenty-two.

I can’t help but think what a beautiful color blood really is. They should dye the whole carpet to match. But then they may move now. They probably will. That’s a shame. Their house is so beautiful. Twelve.

Last words, I keep forgetting. I wonder if anyone will even remember them. Should I bother? I should probably say something comforting, encouraging, forgiving…

“One.”

Saturdays at Grandma’s

Bubble blowing,
cartoon viewing,
puzzles on the floor;
boxes turned
to rocket ships,
crazy eights and war.

Sorting records,
packing boxes,
furniture’s no good;
homes turned back
to houses:
empty shells of wood.

The Removal of Wisdom
Teeth

The air hissing toward my nose
smells stale
Then I remember it’s not air.
My arm is pinched
and I hear,
“The worst is over.”

It’s not until I wake
that I sense the lie
through swollen jaw
and bleeding gums.

I am now confined
to soft serve
dribbling down
numb chin
and soup slipping
past swollen lips.

Passing By

A withered painting hangs outside a room,
It goes unnoticed by all but a few.
Some pause in their stride, then quickly resume,
But a few, just a few, pursue
The beauty within the withered painting.

The frame in cracked and the wood is in rot,
But it seems like it is merely feigning
And up-playing its decrepit lot,
So when a traveler does catch its eye,
And stops to look with awe upon the piece
Instead of merely continuing by,
It is then the beauty does increase.
For the admiration of only one
Makes all the others into none.

The Mirror

Seven years bad luck,
that’s what’s to be feared.
but I’ve had seventeen already
so what’s a few years more?
I look in the broken mirror,
triumphant in a victory
I haven’t really won.
a thousand tiny faces
stare back into my soul,
with no one else to torment,
and nowhere else to go.
they seize my every heartbeat,
and capture every breath,
till the battle’s finally over
and my soul’s finally at rest.