melissaahowells
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whittle down describe her then inscribe her epitaph this is her long history in brief full of furious silence and a little wrath a head full of corkscrews a smile full of fun a snicker a snort a wild-eyed wonder an odd kinda job or sort she, lived by the words their words then, fell on the sword say say say, now wasn't she a joy wasn't she a grin wasn't she oh wasn't she wonderful so so so great for a laugh good for a spin but, odd, too, how she didn't know how she really couldn't know who or what she was it was their climbing on of words all the description and defining like the laying on of too too many paws and how she didn't understand she was highly regarded by their score(s) yet, not so by her siblings nor her Father or Mother not so, nevermore which made her far too preoccupied, with thinking herself sad and believing herself too low she didn't travel far or often in life believing she had nowhere left to run or go as she hid behind herself the pain rarely let others in to see her pretending to be someone else she let most guess at the truth rather than trying to trust in or believe in her she was done with words the pity of them and their echoing the schooling of them the refrain and of the label of them the label of sane or insane. ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ a quick, spontaneous write: Copyright Tuesday, February 11, 2014 All Rights Are Reserved By This Author Meloo/Melissa A Howells SITE: Tilt-a-World Vote for this poem |
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