I could’ve been drunk! – I am glad I am not.

I am trying to drink my pain
in cups of coffee
the size of my hand,
and hope that I’ll be able to gobble it
once and for all.

the process is slow,
but a pain like this
doesn’t come too often.
it would be a sin
to let it go in any other way– but slow.

I sit in uncomfortable chairs
from morning till noon
and let myself get seduced
by soprano voices:
high, mezo, and contralto too.

the size of the cup
varies! from the distance it is
from my mouth, from my eyes,
and the voices of theirs–
tiny-little bells, echo, as they enter from my ears, my mind.

I go from morning till noon,
stepping on my fingers
with my other fingers
and lower my gaze with humiliation, as it meets
on the glass, my reflected gaze.

the pain has taken roots.
It won’t vanish just like that,
but as long as there’s hope
I can hope, for hope–
I guess!

and my fingers break– again
against my other fingers on the keyboard
and the force increases with each touch,
with each released feeling,
emotion, with each word.

I go from morning to noon
seeking a new state of mind,
praying for it to be easier–
or harder, harsher…
ambivalent! -I still can’t decide.

someone with a type-writer,
two tables away from mine, disturbs my peace
hitting the keyboard with all its might.
I don’t mind the writers,
I mind the pretentious aura they provide.

and I go again, from morning;
and I go again, after sunset
until the sun starts to rise, in sunrise.
and break my fingers will all my force
hoping to mend again, my many-times mended heart.

the process is futile!

the mended broken pieces
never break in the same way,
as they broke once.
my fingers knew how to heal pain,
but not this! -I’ve heard, “There’s never the same pain twice.”


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