It’s always those tired evenings;
The ones you stay up late for, though there is no reason to,
listening to songs by a band you’ll forget by the morning,
not caring about the two additional bags you will have to carry to work.
When the minute details you scatter around yourself seem to disorient your apathetic mood.
I recognize that the eyes I seem to curve on nearly every paper-like substance-in the past, my parents’ bills, loose paperwork, and often times napkins-never look authentic or succeed to show the soul of some character that I forgot to finsih a face for.
There is no warmth in the ovals I don’t bother to erase,
but mascara-laden lashes, and displeasing eyebrows above each lid.
As I look them over, I begin to despise how those serious, almond- shaped holes will never veer in a staring contest,
causing my winning streak to disappear into oblivion-
a risk I simply do not want to take.
I force the pair into a blink,
then toss them out like useless contact lenses,
blinded by my envy.
But the paper finds my hand.
The “read this! ” notice on the desk
dons a permanent marker sketch
of eyes that stare,
but fail to impress.
Francesca Martin
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/blank-stare/
