There’s something romantic about
pouring a pitcher full of sorrow
into my brain like chilled beer in a mason jar
that I gulp down and refill, refill
until I’m filled with drunken thoughts
about my lack of – and
overabundance of life.
I sit on a mountain
of melancholy, and swim in a river
of despair and sulk in the sorrow
that I allow into
every single moment of my day
and there’s not a thing
I’ll do to change it
Sorrow,
whispering into my ear,
“Get up, go outside,” and “Sulk a little more,”
so I slip on my moccasins and traipse
to the coffee shop
where I sit in the window
watching all of the lonely people
in hopes that one
will make eye contact with me
so I can kiss the sorrow
from their lips
only to turn away
and never look back.
Ks - Poetography 