The fire has settled to slow embers
the smoke has faded and the cheers
and cries and victorious laughter have fallen
to whispers and tired mumblings
And there's work on Monday
and maybe the fireworks weren't very good this year
and maybe it all feels like a confused jumble and life starts again soon
but it's a nice night really
quite mild for december, or
January now
Diet starts tomorrow,
false promises of self help and fitness
Doesn't it hurt?
It's been shit
A year of confused, tired, upset nothing
and a night that should feel like a gulp of sharp, fresh air outside of a party
a reflective moment, y'know, that part in coming of age films
where they spout philosophy that goes straight to pinterest
and then they kiss, because fuck it,
it's tradition, right?
But it doesn't
you're sat alone, or maybe not alone, but close to it
and it ends as the year has been,
quiet and melancholy and a bit numb
and yes, there have been good times,
there are people you love
and people you will love
but it's so hard being optimistic after every fall of inexplicable greyness
You'll find art you like
You'll find comfy moments
You'll find things that make you excited
And you'll figure something out,
find songs that make you cry and dance and be human
But maybe it's best sitting quietly (if a bit indifferently, and perhaps a little sad)
and waiting for the parties to calm down
after all, what is new years without mild existential worry and a good sleep?
a/n: like everything i ever write, this isnt edited, may take it down but, hey, happy new year (i promise im doing good, i hope you are too)
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The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known
PoetryI write poetry and use writing prompts and start stories, chances are they'll be one of three things: simple, artsy, pretentious. All of them will be pretty bad. Bad art is better than no art, though, and more people need to let themselves make bad...
