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Withering Cedars, Georgia, United States
My name is Tim Morris. I currently dwell in Northwest Georgia on my estate, Withering Cedars, nestled at the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, with my lovely wife and two beautiful daughters, where I teach high school American literature. I have been writing poetry for the majority of my life. I write about what I see around me. When asked, I describe my style as "realist romantic surrealism". The environment, sex, jazz, religion, politics, family, etc., are the subjects on which I tend to focus. When I am not writing, I play the banjo, didgeridoo, or drums or wander aimlessly shooting odd objects with my camera.

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

“i wish i could feel differently”


“i wish i could feel differently”

i awoke this morning
as i do every morning,
sat up on the edge of the bed,
as i do every morning,
and pondered the lack of humanity
in mankind.

i saw a movie once
in which a character stated
humans are a virus
on the planet earth.
i agree.
but he missed one crucial detail;
a virus isn’t malicious.
a virus just does what it does.
but the cruelty of man…
the apathy of man…
the insensitivity of man…

i awoke this morning
as i do every morning,
sat up on the edge of the bed,
as i do every morning,
and wondered if today will,
indeed be the day…
will today be the day
Jehovah, Krishna, Allah,
(insert your favorite deity here)
finally says
that’s it; i’ve had enough!
it’s time to let the pandas
have their shot!

i awoke this morning
as i do every morning,
sat up on the edge of the bed,
as i do every morning,
and thought about the soulless husks
walking the halls of our schools,
and wept.
i thought about the soulless husks
standing in the pulpits,
and wept.
 
i thought about the soulless husks
skipping around capitol hill,
and wept.

i wish i could feel differently,
just for a while.
i wish i could awaken to daylight
and eat my breakfast
with a smile.
but i’m afraid i’ll simply wake in the morning,
as i do every morning,
sit up on the edge of the bed,
as i do every morning,
stare into the darkness and
listen for the coyote’s howl,
listen for my wife’s breath,
listen for the train’s distant roar,
listen for something to push my feet
toward the door.

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