Forgotten

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  • Black Outs

    Forgotten

    Millions of tiny dots
    Cover my vision,
    And I fall backwards.

    I land on cement,
    And then...
    Nothing.

    I was floating
    In darkness.

    All I see...
    All I hear...
    All I feel...
    Is blackness.

    I float for hours,
    No  restraints on
    How far,
    Or how long,
    I can float for.

    But then...
    The little dots disappear,
    Slowly,
    And I regain conciousness.

    I check my watch.
    I was only floating
    For two minutes.

    I get up,
    Turn on my iPod,
    And walk until the black dots
    Are long forgotten.

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    Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

    Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

    himekachan111’s Poems (52)

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