This is one of the better poems from my teenage years. It's somewhat angsty, but then so was I.
Something simply isn't quite right.
I'm usually most creative late at night,
but it's 12:10 and I'm kind of tired.
I don't think I can get all fired
up and cover sheets of paper just now
trying to tell you how
I feel. And tomorrow, when I wake,
I know I'll be too busy to take
the time to keep you from weeping.
I might not even finish this poem: I'll be sleeping
soon, and not get to explain that I find our "understanding"
not rewarding enough, and yet much too demanding.
and this not knowing how you really feel or where I stand; the indecision
of the uncommitted committment; all need revision
but I'm unable to take positive actions,
so I'm afraid our whole will once again be fractions.
I haven't got the heart
to keep us from falling apart.
It's 12:39 and mental interference
is causing this poem's incoherence,
so I'll quit
while it still rhymes,
but I'm too late, it doesn't anymore.
Who cares how many lines I fill? Oh,
I think I'll rest my head upon the pillow
and go to sleep
without another peep.
What the hell,
I might as well:
there's nothing more to say
today.
Santa Clara, circa 1968