Counting dots on the ceiling
And mapping out our dreams
As though we could predict them.
I don't count sheep anymore,
That doesn't help.
I'm a troubled insomniac,
Awake at the thought of seeing you again.
The clock ticks on,
The minute hand racing the hour hand,
Even though it's a pointless competition.
Minutes lap hours, passing by
And fast-forwarding like the movies.
Alone, alone, alone, that voice repeats.
There's no way it will always be true.
Six A.M. rolls around, and I can tell you there are
Two thousand six hundred and forty seven
Dots on the ceiling.
English poem that's due tomorrow:
(Restrictions: two stanzas, eight lines each, five to eight words per line)
Strangers are just ordinary people.
They hurried by, searching for Darren.
We never told them, but they had
Their lives and we had ours.
Those girls flashed in my mind
As the pink sparkly packaging caught the light,
That stupid goose taunting me.
It was just gum, but they’d be proud.
I didn’t mean to leave you there,
I simply forgot my promise to you.
But maybe you’re not meant to be here;
All a mistake, just like that word.
It slipped out, triggering tears
That had been held behind those eyes
For far too long. It was a mistake.
I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.
Whatever. I don't really like it.
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