Poetry

Sometimes it becomes too much 
to drag this suitcase down the assmebly line, 
the same mechanical routine. 
   
I 
re-read your e-mails everyday 
to soften the metal edges. 
  
I 
consume, consume, consumed by lonliness 
waste, waste, wasting away slowly 
and 
pretend. 
  
nudged by an unnatural clock 
divided by twenty-four. 
  
maintained by the quality control department 
of an artificial deist authority. 
  
Why is it that everyone tells me, 
who do you think you are? 
  
There are standard operating procedures 
for everything for a reason. 
  
- 
  
The world is not a stage, 
just a curtain call that breaks your back. 
  
  
It hurts not to see you everyday 
It hurts not to feel complete 
It hurts not to kiss you 
  
It hurts to call out 
in unrequited love.