She said it like I perceived what she was
talking about: “the meek shall indulge.”
She then bereaved how meek she was,
how weak she was, how unique she was.
I then conceived how chic she was,
how sleek she was, how freak she was;
I heard her – and I couldn’t believe she was
talking about another lover she’s indulged.
I hate the calendar. It hangs in the assumption that something will happen. not that it has to happen, nor that it needs to happen, but it will happen anyway, no matter what I say.
I hate the calendar, not because I fear commitment, but I despise the thought of obliging myself to something that doesn’t pertain to my present state – tomorrow can worry about itself; I have enough to worry about today.
I hate the calendar. Every day is another tilted red cross that I bear. It’s a vibrant intersection of lifelines and deadlines – everything I can do in this life and how long I have to do it.
I most hate the calendar because it answers the question of my mortality. It screams from every corner YOUR DAYS ARE NUMBERED! I know I’ll die; I don’t need a calendar to remind me.
Here’s a poem I wrote back in 2009; it has since been revised and exists now as I believe it should.