Bedtime Stories

words spill out of my body
only in the hours in which I am so
sleep deprived that my senses
do not filter out my authenticity
with an anxiety to write something
beautiful, instead my insides turn
out and I am exposed for all
that I am in the least poetic sense

I crave being pretty poetry and yet
my lines only ever align in the time
which I am barely even conscious
breathing heaviness behind my eyes
forcing my hand to stroke the page
for only a few more words written
before I fail to stay awake
trying to grasp my aching wonder
suppressed into a sleepy mind

 

 

 

 

 

 

by Angela Bachmann

Hardware

please troubleshoot all my emotions
for my hardware’s just not right
there’s a bug that’s got me lagging
when sickness is far out of sight

it’s the sadness that needs fixing
but I cannot find the source
there’s no reason for these feelings
yet I remain deep in remorse

how I wish I were a computer
and were easier to scan
for all this analyzing’s got me going mad

if I could I’d turn back time
to a place where things were fine
but oh! it seems that I will stay forever sad

 

 

 

 

by Angela Bachmann

In This Room

Barren brick walls surround
me, speckled with imperfections
as I sit, motionless
for what seems like eternity.
I remind myself internally
that I am getting paid to be here
to justify my extreme lack of interest.
This room is quite unappealing
to me and my self esteem
drops rapidly as the glances
and the stares become
more frequent. My thoughts
remind me that I put this upon myself
willingly. I do not fear
being bare in front of these people.
My terror lies within
my own ability to accept
the body in which my spirit
was placed. The forced stillness
makes me feel both trapped and free.
I examine the freckled wall, and find
a blotch of darkness, one which
strikes me as different, and I let it
encapsulate me.

I am no longer in that room.
I am no longer in that body.
I am that speck of nothingness
on the wall.

The students continue to study me,
and I study
what most of them
will never even notice is there.

 

 

 

 

 

by Angela Bachmann

American Spirits

A small brown carton lies among
scattered coffee table contents
I tell myself since they’re organic
it must somehow make them better

But I know I’m simply
smoking cigarettes to die

As my sea of filters flourish
my smoke breaks become more lonely
thoughts of you come creeping back
remember when you used to smoke too?

Now I guess you’re just a quitter
like you gave up on loving me
leaving behind all of your habits
addictions you’ve passed on to me

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

by Angela Bachmann