The clock noisily drips the slow dropp of time.
Drip, drop. Drip, drop.
Midnight has come and gone.
Drunken couples giggle and stumble their way
home
to darkened rooms
into each other’s
arms.
I lie alone.
My annual tradition
at the stroke of twelve is
not of resolution
but of resignation.
Tears are all that
kiss this cheek.
Another year slips by with
bangs, balloons, and booze.
I lie alone,
my knees and my secret
hopes
curled close to the chest.
Like balloons hidden
in the dark and
netted against the ceiling,
they float above the din,
timid and shy,
waiting to be released.
And with them,
the thought that
this may be
(maybe)
my year.
The dream that 364 days
will cater me with
the delicious
sense of possibility and promise.
The yearning for the one thing
-for anything-
instead of this lonely hotel bed
and empty assurances that
it will indeed all
be happy
and new.
Catherine Elaine
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/old-angst-lie/
