It’s always those tired evenings; <br />The ones you stay up late for, though there is no reason to, <br />listening to songs by a band you’ll forget by the morning, <br />not caring about the two additional bags you will have to carry to work. <br />When the minute details you scatter around yourself seem to disorient your apathetic mood. <br /> <br />I recognize that the eyes I seem to curve on nearly every paper-like substance-in the past, my parents’ bills, loose paperwork, and often times napkins-never look authentic or succeed to show the soul of some character that I forgot to finsih a face for. <br />There is no warmth in the ovals I don’t bother to erase, <br />but mascara-laden lashes, and displeasing eyebrows above each lid. <br /> <br /> <br />As I look them over, I begin to despise how those serious, almond- shaped holes will never veer in a staring contest, <br />causing my winning streak to disappear into oblivion- <br />a risk I simply do not want to take. <br /> <br />I force the pair into a blink, <br />then toss them out like useless contact lenses, <br />blinded by my envy. <br /> <br />But the paper finds my hand. <br /> <br />The “read this! ” notice on the desk <br />dons a permanent marker sketch <br />of eyes that stare, <br />but fail to impress.<br /><br />Francesca Martin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/blank-stare/
