Broken, Broken, Broken

Sometimes I like to write poetry when I’m sad. This is one I wrote tonight:

Broken, Broken, Broken

The oven broke.
Then the microwave broke.
Then the knob on the toaster oven broke
Then, in between all the kitchen appliances breaking,
A bunch of computers broke
So that my room is now a computer graveyard,
Where I am haunted by the fact that
I could have gone back to school and gotten another degree,
If it weren’t for buying all these now dead, spooky, broken computers, which all happen to be white just like Casper the Friendly Ghost.
Except for the Blueberry-colored one, which works enough to play a Hank William’s CD I duct-taped inside it.
And in between all those things breaking,
A steam valve in my building’s basement broke
And flooded my apartment
And practically everything inside it broke,
So many things that I stopped counting all the broken things
And tried to notice what was whole.
But tonight, I’m sitting on my building’s stoop,
Staring at the moon,
And even the moon is broken.
It’s just a shiny half.
I want to ask it: the half that I can see, for something.
I don’t wish upon a star because I hardly ever see the stars, let alone one I could wish upon.
So I’m constantly asking the moon for things,
Even though I have more than most people, more than a lot of the people walking by me.
A father and his two sons walk by me.
They have luggage and the father looks sad and desperate
And the smallest boy’s Spongebob backpack is broken
And my heart breaks for him because I wish
Someone would fix it for him
I wonder where the mom is,
And my mind immediately invents a tragic situation
And I want to adopt the whole family and take care of them
Even though I can barely take care of myself.
I care more for these boys than I do for myself.
And I momentarily stop feeling sorry for myself
Not that I really feel sorry for myself
I don’t feel much for myself
I’m indifferent to myself,
Neither a narcissist
Or my own worst critic
I put up with myself
The way I put up with all the taped-together technology
That fills my life.
I’m like an outdated, filthy computer playing the same sad country songs over and over because they’re duct-taped into me.
And it would take someone actually removing the tape for me to change my tune.
Maybe not worth the effort since I can’t be entirely fixed, just undone and taped back up.


One Response to “Broken, Broken, Broken”

  1. Tommy Bigfinger Says:

    awwwww, Rev! how perfectly sad and depressing.

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