Any Connotations

So...here's another poem about being upset about ends of eras and shit. Alright, alright, I know! I keep going on about it, and I'm sorry. I'm just using poetry to purge, k? When it's all over, we'll all be better people for it and we'll have a right old knees up, drinks on me*, right? (*I'm not buying anyone any drinks. I'll be having all of the drinks. All of them.)

Oh, and ST PATRICK'S DAY, isn't it? Yes, that. 

Day 32...

Grand Canyon

So you took a melon baller to my faculties

and scooped them clean out of me.

I just thought we were getting ready for a party,

but the empty skin that is left of me

doesn’t really feel like dancing.

It’s hard to pinpoint

the exact moment of ending.

There was no swell of music,

no credits, no spongy clouds of popcorn

stuck to the soles of our shoes.

They say the Grand Canyon

was just a hairline crack once;

that the earth saw it getting bigger,

while the sky blindly tried to fill the gap.

I guess you could say the earth is a secretive asshole,

but where’s the use in that now?

That old canyon serves its purpose.

The Bitch of Living

What's that I hear you cry, dear readers? Do I have another morose poem for you today? Why yes I do! Soz about all the feelings, guys...I'm in the grip of one of life's major heartbreaks. I ain't the first and by sure as heck ain't gon' be the last, but it's apparently manifesting itself through my work (and the monotonous hours of crying and wanting to vomit), so you're just going to have to DEAL, right? Right. I'm glad we're on the same page. Literally! LOL, see, I can still be funny! *insert fart noise*. 

Day 25, whut whut!

Dull Days

The clock is harbouring secrets.

What time was it you left?

When was I really alive?

Happiness is a temporary disguise.

Underneath it we are all in the clutches of longing,

longing for that underappreciated past.

We can say, “Today was a good day.

I did not cry,” but what does that mean, really?

I had forgotten how good it felt

to taste water after a meal.

So much has changed.

One day, we will wonder

where these days went,

wonder why we sprinkled them away

like salt from clammy fingertips.

The threads, once so tightly woven,

are working their way loose.

We grow slack with despair.