Sad Poems : Alcoholic Poet: One Conversation With A Hundred People Sad Poetry.

Alcoholic Poet. Poetry Equals Distance Over Time.

Distance Over Time
Tuesday 4/10/2007 12:19:00 AM

They make words with their mouths. I make mine with my hands. Different ways of telling the same story. All heads swivelling to follow this infinite tennis match. Of living. And dying being batted back and forth until we're too tired to try.

They listen with what they've said. Their own words their ears. Searching for a long lost twin. They count your change out in untold nightmares. Candy-coated miseries of prozac bills and married sex. Flaunting their autopsies in chatter about the weather. They talk to their lives in hushed whispers like a child nursing an imaginary friend.

You're lost when you don't know where you are. You're found when you don't know where you're going.


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