this was something that just sort of came out while i was in class. not that i often lose focus enough to write poems, but every once in a while i find an excuse to distract myself from lecture; or rather, the excuse finds me after i have already floated off into the smoke that lingers in my thoughts. i don't mean to space out, and by no means is it a frequent occurrence, but this time, when i realized that i hadn't been listening to anything my professor had said in the last forty-five minutes or so, i laughed at how much it reminded me of high school. what little time i spent there.
i fucking hated high school. with a sincere passion. anyway, i digress... the title of this piece is where i thought i'd rather be while i was writing it.
sitting in front of the heater, breathing in
and who thinks out loud?
who whispers and
where do they get the air?
speaking and screaming
can't take the rain away. they are
poor substitutes for a coat and
it never helps to slip off my jacket
my nerves know the elements well, now
and
the cold is no different than
the sun is no different than
the clouds that hide my face
from the stars that wouldn't want
to leave my head if they had a choice
--i just know it--
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