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Weary and sluggish with apathy and
disinterest, I nervously reflect and
languish.
My thoughts--thick and heavy like
molasses--churn and swirl in and out of my
head and spill against the background of
dead silence of my apartment living room.
They are in constant motion, while I sit in
the living room mute and gagged and bound
with the world-weariness of a lifetime and
stare blankly into empty space by looking
inward.
Even the furnishings around me defer to
my sullen mood. Not saying a word and
bowing their heads, they hold their tongues
and keep their thoughts to themselves out
of respect and deference for my silent and
solemn doldrums.
The TV,
otherwise always on and hyper-gregarious,
for once regards my sullenness and apathy
with its own.
I sit thus—
alone,
but in the sympathetic company of my
furniture and belongings.
They whisper to me of a time when I was
sinful and wanton and remind me of the
need for redemption.
I remember, and take heed by repenting.
By doing so, I have avoided reaping and
gathering
a harvest of sins.
------
"Good verse, like art, is difficult."
--ngoc m. nguyen, aka "poembender"
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The Damaged Self-Esteem of Suzy (updated)
