Ken Wuz Here

I do not know what had me tooling through the poetry section on here last night. I do not regard myself as a poet, but do think of myself as an avid reader. I felt inspired enough to put this onto my page, though. I hope that someone somewhere likes it:

Stop.
Enough.
Why do you do this to yourself?
There isn’t enough,
Scotch in this bottle,
Or the next,
To make me stop thinking of her.

Of the table,
The curl of smoke,
The dirty martinis,
The inevitable first date
Question, casually-asked,
“So, what are you looking for?”
The girl who loves me back.

Knowing here, tonight,
Gazing into the bottom of this glass,
That is utterly impotent,
To make me forget,
that she,
Was everything I’ve ever wanted,
Just not the only thing I’ve ever wanted.

I hear reason, seated across the room saying,
Stop.
Enough.
Why do you do this to yourself?
Go write a novel, build an empire,
Start a movement, enrich peoples’ lives.
Anything but this.

Betrayal.
I will endure fights until four in the morning,
Angry texts, The pain of infidelities,
Gaping chasms across my heart.
Tis but a flesh wound.
You’re out there.
I cannot give up on you now.

And in the morning I shall whisper my penance,
Into the vapors rising from my coffee cup,
And when my day is done,
I shall unseat reason from its gilded throne,
and say. “I’ve got a full tank of gas and forty bucks in my wallet,
Tomorrow’s payday,
Let’s get out of here. Go do something.”

And I shall look for you.
For the feel of cool grass beneath us,
As we count the stars on a summer night.
For the sound of laughter from the living room,
As I pour us fresh glasses of wine.
For a goodbye.
Never spoken.

Qui craint le danger,
ne doit pas aller en mer.
I am a man,
who cannot say,
Stop.
Enough.
Why do we do this to ourselves?