Sometimes I just write on nights I'm alone, fermenting in the smoke of the cigarettes i burn outside my bedroom window.
It's thick and stagnant like water vapor condensing over the lake; visable from the road and heavy in the air.
I'm alone in this cold room on this cold night, and the only sound is the hum of my laptop fan.
It awkwardly shifts through the silence like an underaged girl at her first college party. This hum is all that is left of a night unfullfilled and what makes the quiet all the more apparent.
I'm a single scab on a beautiful arm, and as i watch the ceiling fan turn aimlessly I realize that these nights make me feel so completely fucking pathetic. I'm mad like a dog in heat; horny for comfort and a warm body. the stale scent of smoke and sweat are the resting odors of a cadaver walking.
These echos in my room make sense to me. At least it feels like someone's talking back. Maybe im just completely insane.
David Snyder
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-heart-is-a-lonely-hunter/
