The clock noisily drips the slow dropp of time. <br />Drip, drop. Drip, drop. <br /> <br />Midnight has come and gone. <br />Drunken couples giggle and stumble their way <br />home <br />to darkened rooms <br />into each other’s <br />arms. <br /> <br />I lie alone. <br /> <br />My annual tradition <br />at the stroke of twelve is <br />not of resolution <br />but of resignation. <br /> <br />Tears are all that <br />kiss this cheek. <br /> <br />Another year slips by with <br />bangs, balloons, and booze. <br /> <br />I lie alone, <br />my knees and my secret <br />hopes <br />curled close to the chest. <br />Like balloons hidden <br />in the dark and <br />netted against the ceiling, <br />they float above the din, <br />timid and shy, <br />waiting to be released. <br /> <br />And with them, <br />the thought that <br />this may be <br />(maybe) <br />my year. <br /> <br />The dream that 364 days <br />will cater me with <br />the delicious <br />sense of possibility and promise. <br /> <br />The yearning for the one thing <br />-for anything- <br />instead of this lonely hotel bed <br />and empty assurances that <br />it will indeed all <br />be happy <br />and new.<br /><br />Catherine Elaine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/old-angst-lie/
