This was an LJ entry.. but I think it is a poem as well..

My fate seems to have become sitting in a corner writing poems in my head for someone who is gone. Hoping that tonight will be the night that you will need me, or come to your senses, or decide to break the rules, or something. But it won't come. The phone stays silent. So does my room. And I have already begun the process of becoming what I am not to leave behind what I was. That someone who was consumed by someone else brushing lips with someone who belongs to someone else screaming "This is not you! This. Is. Not. You!" at myself to no avail. Tim was drunk and staggering. The girl with a figure like a cello and a jiggle like jello was beckoning his singles into her g-string and I was grinning. It was a ruse. But I was grinning. The band played late and I wanted to tell you about the joys of that night. I wanted to hate your absence but paint pictures with my words in great detail for you to read with your ears as to make you feel not so far away. And not so alone. But we are alone now. Aren't we? All of us? Surrounded by friends who can't hold you like one person did once long ago. I am left now in bars and kilts and smokes and paper flowers and long hours and spread too thin and glowing screens and words magically appearing on them and the machine gun click of my composition at the tip of my fingers and choosing between librarians and whores and similes and metaphors. But for now? The phoenix is not coming. Lazarus needs his rest. I don't want to hear about tomorrow being a new day. I want to focus on how exactly I am going to force myself out of bed in the morning. So, for now. I am going to sleep and dream of a better time, either past or future, wake up and get out of bed. And be one day closer to who i will be and one step further away from who I was. Which when you really think about it? Isn't so bad...  ¶ 12:16 AM