Love Poem by Cody Davis

                                                                         Aren’t I supposed to be in love?

Isn’t my heart supposed to be an intangible object controling where my feet go, when my tongue swells, when I write poetry?
Shouldn’t my excuse for remaining awake at 5 am be that I’m wondering how she’s sleeping?
Are my hands freezing or do I just miss the warmth of her neck?
Am I still on this quest to find out who I am, or who she is, or have I settled for what is?  Or is it settling? Or is it found?
Where is the meaning to be found?
Rather than sleeping, working, running a marathon, reading a book, or doing anything else that has a purpose, I’m on a fucking tangent about something with no definite resolution, except that of long term damage.
This is why I don’t sleep normal hours.
I’m awake, in a cold sweat, tearing at a white screen, and listening to a white lady talk about an African woman’s cancer, and her daughter, and her hope, poverty, then death, struggle, the information kits with photos, the love and gratitude I’ll receive, and the low price I have to pay.
I despise the guilt I feel writing about love while statistics about AIDS are being read.
So I change the channel.

2 chatty Kathys:

Jordan said...

that is.

jazzyfella08 said...

True story.