Hope Rides Alone

Jokster: Did you hear about the actress who tried to kill herself today? Reese ... uh
Other person: Witherspoon?
Jokester: No, with a knife!

...
Yeah, that pretty much sums up how I'm feeling of late. Despite the fact that there was a luverly cold snap this morning and I wore TWO pairs of socks today (YAY!) I am now sick, bodily and spiritually. I won't go into detail here but ... well, I'm at a very low point right now. It doesn't help that today is September 11th and my dark mood sent me down memory lane and I couldn't stop remembering how I was in Chorus back then and how when we hit a certain note in this certain song I would see a plane smashing into one of the towers and falling papers and Osama bin Laden.

In other news, an old friend of mine is leaving tomorrow for Peru, Heroes returns in ELEVEN days, I'm planning on watching True Blood soley because I love the theme song, and Doctor Who Season 5 is coming along nicely.

Still, there IS hope, in the form of this autobiographical poem. (I date my poems, the date isn't part of the title, and the title needs work.)

(September 11, 2008)

It’s Not the Math Problem

 

I fold my arms upon the desk

And lay my forehead down.

This problem isn’t like the rest

My forehead forms a frown.

 

My drooping eyes soon sting with tears

My plea for help sounds weak.

I haven’t done this in many years

I cough instead of speak.

 

I remember what I cried about

Last night, and then I sigh:

The problem’s not mathematical

My intellect is fine.  

 

I exeunt from my inner-cage

And bite back a guilty sigh.

I scribble fast upon the page:

My faith restored in I.

P.S. You know what's great? Hot chocolate.