All You Know
It's been awhile since I've posted any of my poetry publically, and, well, I feel like doing so, again. Therefore, here you go, behind a cut:
"All You Know," by c.Jay Wrong, June 2007
And you feel as though you are what people who rejoice in sadness want to be,
That you have every season to spend every word on despair,
But you don't walk like them, you don't use their language,
You live and laugh, you're alright, you're just fine…
Sometimes, standing still on the curb of your street,
You look out down at the unlit houses and empty cars,
And the world constricts to just one small neighbhourhood,
Where you are the last living soul, you feel…
People make no comment of your looks, your dress,
They maybe smile, they maybe say a word or two,
But conversations drift apart like sinking ships,
Where no survivors can be rescued…
Your home has been abandoned save but by you,
And the mailman forgets your name each day,
You wonder why you own a phone, really, what's it doing,
It sits in its dusty chair unused, like you.
You see other people talk of loneliness and solitude,
And you wonder if they've ever slept beside another person once in memory,
Do they realise there are those who have had no such luck,
Who has not been in bed with another since leaving their mothers…
It might be easier, that way, you know,
No reference point to what you dearly miss,
Except that nagging, human desire locked and hardwired to the heart,
It'd be easier if that ever went away…
You bid everyone farewell each day,
After you've ran and played amongst them,
They depart in pairs, in love,
And you set your clock,
You stare at the pillow,
You turn back the bed,
As it's all you know…
It's all you know:
Sleeping alone.
"All You Know," by c.Jay Wrong, June 2007
And you feel as though you are what people who rejoice in sadness want to be,
That you have every season to spend every word on despair,
But you don't walk like them, you don't use their language,
You live and laugh, you're alright, you're just fine…
Sometimes, standing still on the curb of your street,
You look out down at the unlit houses and empty cars,
And the world constricts to just one small neighbhourhood,
Where you are the last living soul, you feel…
People make no comment of your looks, your dress,
They maybe smile, they maybe say a word or two,
But conversations drift apart like sinking ships,
Where no survivors can be rescued…
Your home has been abandoned save but by you,
And the mailman forgets your name each day,
You wonder why you own a phone, really, what's it doing,
It sits in its dusty chair unused, like you.
You see other people talk of loneliness and solitude,
And you wonder if they've ever slept beside another person once in memory,
Do they realise there are those who have had no such luck,
Who has not been in bed with another since leaving their mothers…
It might be easier, that way, you know,
No reference point to what you dearly miss,
Except that nagging, human desire locked and hardwired to the heart,
It'd be easier if that ever went away…
You bid everyone farewell each day,
After you've ran and played amongst them,
They depart in pairs, in love,
And you set your clock,
You stare at the pillow,
You turn back the bed,
As it's all you know…
It's all you know:
Sleeping alone.