Nine Weeks
Because I don’t want to know that you are going
And I’m sick of ignoring the problem of absence
I’ll miss you so much and that truth burns
So just let me be so I can prepare
For nine weeks of hell and
63 days of isolation
Because friends aren’t always enough
We grow fonder, in rage
We grow fonder, in sorrow
We grow fonder from lust
Nine weeks of hell
And 63 days of isolation
Few days of joy within them
I want this to end
I want this to stop
But you must leave
And we must suffer
We grow older apart
And for now we are children, ignorant and oblivious
To the chore of true love,
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poem by Casey Stewart
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I am sick of this road
Another horrid drive
300 miles, etched in my mind
Burnt into my eyes
Tree after tree, damn this monotony
Road staggers through the hills
Lost in woods
Eastern Ohio in fall
So uninteresting
Like an old photograph in a textbook
It never changes
Fields of wheat
Fields of grass
Fields of exhaustion in my life
I am not doing this for you anymore
It is sick
Disgusted driver loses his focus
No fairness in the visits
So unbalanced in quantity
Road ends in hell for me
I am here for a single sunflower among weeds
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poem by Casey Stewart
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Birth of the man whose eyes saw truth
Stop the demands
I’m sick of the irony in their words
It is not the cyclical nature of this mishap
I tried to deviate from the path
But you two were busy
And listen up little girl
Do not point your finger of blame in my face
Where is my charity?
So long was I drowning in my own problems
And when I emerged I expected to be greeted
By those who had laid their problems to rest
Six feet under I thought sorrow now rested
A lover not interested in staying any longer
Friends who accuse others of their own absence
Of their own ignorance
A girl who will not visit her soul mate
Yet
Screams at him to do so
STOP! !
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poem by Casey Stewart
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