Disclaimer: This is an absolutely secular post. And no, this is not written for a particularly useless ex-boyfriend, or a cover-up suicide note. It was painfully extracted out of a dejected soul upon its receipt of yet another "we regret to inform you" letter (only the close ones would know, naturally. i never stop screaming into their faces.)
And hence the lack of stylish poetic embellishments. the poem isn't gonna sound like any more than sleeptalk.
It was conceived out of an epiphanic moment, a stark realisation that somewhere in the heavens above us, theres a control freak who loves playing us humans like how we humans play The Sims. he/she/it loves a bit of drama and modern Greek tragedy. Ha-ha. So here we go:
I think I’m defeated.
I spend my mornings in bed,
refusing to get up to start the day.
I think it ended.
It was over before it began.
There’s nothing left, not even the sun.
I would surrender.
But not today, I’m not ready yet.
I’m so used to the grey patches I see in my reflection.
I can’t swim well.
Though I guess I could keep afloat still,
With your help – please don’t turn me down.
Oh I’m defeated.
Spare me your evil chortle
You’re gonna choke on that big fart of a cloud now. -Lemon, Murder'd again.'08.
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