Not The Last Poem, Just The Most Recent

It's seven o'clock and I'm thinking of you
Now eleven fourty-five and I'm still blue
Six A.M. and I'm getting rather restless
Nine twenty-three and I'm ready for bed and undressed
Twelve thirty-two and my hand is on the phone
'Cause I'm finding out how badly I deal with this so-called
"Being alone"

I claim to be a poet
And friends tell me, they know it
But poetry is more subtle than I thought
It's not a magic cureall
It doesn't show the way
Just where you've been
And where you are
But no one can say where you're going
This way, or that way?
The right way? or the wrong way?

I'm not sure, but I think the record of my life is skipping
And inside my reputation is all awry
I can't keep fighting an enemy that I can't see
Maybe it was never there at all………Baby, I'll fake I'm happy
To match everyone else around you
But this act is already getting old
And the world outside isn't snowy
But it's a sight too cold for me

I may have already said it
But you might not have understood
So I'll say it again
"This act is already getting old
And the world outside isn't snowy
But it's a sight too cold for me"
Looking at the sky
Alone with you, except for your lover boy
Who keeps hanging around beside me
I'll forget who I am eventually
And that'll be the best moment of my life
Until, of course, I realize what I've done
And just how much I've lost

I use words, nothing else
And I'm trying to make your heart swell and burst
Sting your eyes with tears
And when you realize how high in regard I hold you
I know you'll break down and cry
And if you haven't yet, then you haven't found out
But it's just a matter of time
Of seconds, minutes, hours, years
Before you finally take the ear buds out
And stop for a moment to really hear (what I've been saying all along)