tourist.

I had a complete lack of ideas for today’s daily prompt, but I just started writing and this is what happened.

maybe a better poet could make a poem out of this word but I am still learning I don’t feel anything when it comes to that word, tourist. all I think of is laughing at passerbys in ridiculous getup, looking around wanting instructions because they don’t know where they are where they’re going. I don’t know why we laugh, though, because aren’t we all like that sometimes somewhere? I remember being lost and it’s not a good feeling not something you wanna take pictures of. but they’ve got cameras smiles because they’re making memories and a little part of me is jealous green envious. because while I’m stuck at home stuck in the same old room old world, they’re out there SEEING the world drinking it in, they’re traveling finding places. it seems like such a so long time ago when my life included driving vacations freedom time. such a so long time ago I can’t remember how good it felt to be new to be somewhere to be different to grow. I guess I do remember but I don’t want to doesn’t it stink to remember and only remember nothing more no more. okay I guess I felt something with that tourist word but I didn’t know until now isn’t it funny the kind of digging you do writing?

 

 

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beside railroad tracks.

It is too cold to be standing out here.
(It’s too cold for this perpetual state
of needing you.)
There is too much for me to mull over in silence;
too much for my drowsy mind to ponder
and wander around.
My feet hurt.
I have been rocking on my heels
for what seems like hours.
Has it been only ten minutes?
What time is it?
I’ve forgotten my watch,
but I remember my worry,
as usual.
The sun is rising,
and I have always loved sunrises,
so maybe being out here
won’t be as bad as I thought.
(But I am still waiting.)
Waiting can be as tiring
as standing around,
looking at nothing,
because sometimes they are the same thing.
I am looking at something.
(I thought I was.)
I came here with the notion that
you wanted to see me;
that you were not just a memory,
a long-dead flame
I am trying to rekindle.
It is still cold out, so I shiver
and pull my sweater tighter
around my arms that used to open up to yours.
But I don’t want to think about that, now.

Inspired by Desertedroad’s post, found here.

I didn’t expect ‘The End’ to look like this…

Will we pass each other in the halls, sometime?
Maybe I’ll see you around.
Empty promises we threw at drawn lines;
I’m afraid our flames have been blown out.
The words wouldn’t come when we said goodbye.
I expected them all to just fall unannounced
into the silence that hung between us,
but it seems our relationship is headed south.
Now, all we are is pushed-back seats:
trying to make room for our legs to fit—
and I am tired of our cotton-candy lies:
using the phrases we thought could fix—
our own broken hands have got us in this mess.