Sometimes I just write on nights I'm alone, fermenting in the smoke of the cigarettes i burn outside my bedroom window. <br />It's thick and stagnant like water vapor condensing over the lake; visable from the road and heavy in the air. <br />I'm alone in this cold room on this cold night, and the only sound is the hum of my laptop fan. <br />It awkwardly shifts through the silence like an underaged girl at her first college party. This hum is all that is left of a night unfullfilled and what makes the quiet all the more apparent. <br /> <br />I'm a single scab on a beautiful arm, and as i watch the ceiling fan turn aimlessly I realize that these nights make me feel so completely fucking pathetic. I'm mad like a dog in heat; horny for comfort and a warm body. the stale scent of smoke and sweat are the resting odors of a cadaver walking. <br /> <br />These echos in my room make sense to me. At least it feels like someone's talking back. Maybe im just completely insane.<br /><br />David Snyder<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-heart-is-a-lonely-hunter/
