Whistle
By violetfyre
The train whistle tells me it's going home, But all that's home is the face That went through $150 of cocaine in one night. But it's the face that holds me In the smoke-filtered light Long enough to fall in love. The clock tells me it's going to be a long night. Your tear-tinged voice tells me it'll be a long life Of battling you and battling drugs for your attention, While your family and friends are too stoned to attend your intervention. Your lips tell me it's a one-time thing, But your eyes tell me you're unsure. My memory tells me you've lied before. I'm not sure of anything. This paper tells me it's getting late. Tear-smeared ink stains the page, And words are blurred through these brown eyes That saw your smiles, your apologies, your lies. You wear the face that screams regression, And I'm screaming at the top of my lungs. Everything tells me I should hate you. I know I'll never leave. **THIS SUCKS. It's totally uncollected, helter-skelter, random thoughts poured out on a page so that I didn't end up crying again. I thought situations like this was supposed to breed good poetry. ** Written April 16th, 2002 © on Apr 15 2002 05:55 PM PST 18 • 0 • 10
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"The train whistle tells me it's going home,..."