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Fuck the Mist

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I dream of an auburn mist

that billows from Emerson’s stacks

choking the sun bruised daisies

that writhe in agony on their backs.

-

Winter is just around the corner

my ephemeral empathy is dying

they’ll be dead in a day anyways

so what’s the point in crying?

-

I really see no point in it,

grinding my aspirations to dust,

tossing my demeanor to the wind,

leaving my smile to hopelessly rust.

-

And it all swirls in circles,

through the winding caverns of my mind,

slowly settling at the bottom,

of this horrible weekly grind.

-

I hammer my shaking fists,

as I sift through this hellish muck,

screaming for those dying daisies,

betraying my cynical lust.

Comments (5)

This comment was minimized by the moderator on the site

Nicely done. I like the rage simmering just below the surface of this poem.

Brandon_Hennen
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I agree. The narrator is in the verge of tearing his whole world apart. Most effective.

Eric Lawson
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Thank you very much, this is exactly what I was going for.

JonSternburg
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I like the ending a lot! I think we are designed with a deep-rooted opposition to cynicality (is that a word?) and apathy, no matter how cool it is in popular culture, or how smug we feel pretending we don't care. It seems it takes a lot to kill...

I like the ending a lot! I think we are designed with a deep-rooted opposition to cynicality (is that a word?) and apathy, no matter how cool it is in popular culture, or how smug we feel pretending we don't care. It seems it takes a lot to kill that. -Soulja4Alethia

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Soulja4Alethia
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Thank you! And I agree entirely.

JonSternburg
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