The Raven, by Edgar Allan Poe

The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe, read by D.W. Metz

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just another breakdown

it’s happening again
but what it is
i don’t know
what i’m feeling
like my best friend died
or worse yet
someone i’ve never met
the urge to be a part
of what i’m not
even though i know
the imitation will kill me
but so does being my own
that i want to share
with the nonexistent other
who is mother sister
lover bodhisattva
bereft on southern shorelines
or ice cream parlors
or off for jaunts to london
sending back postcards
to console the sorrow
‘but without the pain
you wouldn’t be you’ she said
so who would i be
and am i alive
my rhymes and lines
taken for madness
i’m beginning to agree
as a simple perfume
takes my mind on a kite
to be tangled in the trees
with the child crying
maybe i should see a doctor
maybe i should see a razor
maybe i should see an sunrise
i left the middle class
thinking of the boiler room
and went for a cigarette
walking without aim
to a nearby hotel
cheap beer in a fancy glass
imagined conversations
with bukowski and hemingway
they left me with the bill
the last of the can
drained into the glass
so silent i could hear
the foam head settle
over the television
and continued writing
on cocktail napkins
as i asked for another
the tab was four bucks
i dropped a five and left
went back to class
is that you friend
calling me back from death