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Interior Monologue

by r. miller


This vacant, rain-drenched field
really speaks to me, tells me more
about my life and the way I've been
living it than I could ever care to know.
It's weird to think about.
As are sunsets, billiard parlors,
and quantum theory. Over the steppes,
straight from the cast iron heart
of human drama, wails of desperation
come pouring. Supposing I could ignore
 
these and similar entities, then what?
I'd manage. Half-assedly, yes,
but I'd manage. I'd give myself
a little leg room. I'd let the paint
on the walls dry.
 
Maybe even take up a new hobby,
something like woodworking,
only without so much use of my hands.
My desires seemed
so much deeper in my punch bowl days.
I could fit my entire arm in them
and still not touch bottom,
and seeing just how far I could get
was part of the fun. Now
they just go wrist deep,
 
and I'm somehow okay with it?
No big thing. A bowl of ramen
contains all the hope and faith
I could ever stomach.
I've got the scars to prove it.
 
 
 
 
 
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 About the author: r. miller is an aspiring poet residing in the wilds of southern Pennsylvania.  He is a member of Paper Plane Pilots, an international writers' collective. He has previously had his poems featured in Anti-Heroin Chic and Jazz Cigarette, and in his debut chapbook entitled "Separate Instances of Loneliness." More poems can be found on his blog  In addition to writing, r. miller enjoys spending his leisure time wandering aimlessly through deep forests in Autumn, creating uncomfortable situations for his family and loved ones, and reading dense philosophical tomes in his favorite local coffee shop while smugly sipping on Chai.