Recently my macbook crashed and burned beyond all recognition. From the flames of offgassing plastic I was able to salvage most of my data, including all of my writing from college (I was an English major). I took a creative writing class, and also wrote poetry somewhat often. It was almost all angsty. I was not a cheerful flower.
I give you... "The Memory of Suffering" (heavy, right?)
Where does he go
When the tears are spent
on his dirty pillowcase?
He is too tired to sleep,
too sore from sobbing,
too restless to lay still.
His hands stopped shaking hours ago.
The only sounds:
the window air conditioner, grunting and shuddering at irregular intervals;
the repetitive clicking of the ceiling fan.
He is shivering.
He is not shivering.
The air conditioner is not shuddering.
The ceiling fan still clicks.
His tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth.
He licks his lips and they taste salty underneath the dryness.
His face feels tight and clumsy.
His jaw hangs slack.
The ceiling has no new patterns to offer.