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listen, if you can
this is a math equation a real story problem which I cannot solve/resolve the oranges and apples have become peaches lemons olives and kangaroos I no longer keep the solution nor have the means to get to it in my mind so long/good-bye some days I feel high above my shoulders and cannot begin to find my head have you ever thought about death? the bell's tolling do you worry who you might find when you think? sometimes I reach for my head wishing to wrench it off I hide in plain sight to keep other's eyes from seeing who I am and am not I have become something else at times to avoid others' scoffs I feel chipped away as paint with all their borrowing of me I have to separate myself its all this rushing in like waves I tire of the sea ever feel you were drowning? would I be better off cloistered like a nun? ranting my prayers towards heaven heave them up to God? having them ignored for their total sum? am I braver than other girls? prayer is becoming a peculiar unworkable preoccupation am I unheard, cast off unfit or odd? thought and prayer cast the false martyrdom of my torn grey dress might the Lord cheat and give me all my answers so that nothing would I gain but duress do the angels dancing on a pin all leap and turn away? its four in the morning outside the birds have begun to sing if I could sleep days on end, entombed it'd be a far more pleasant thing I am who I am, but sometimes I'm just not enough for me past the expiration date of my history feeling a pressure: a need to be on top, in tune, ahead, aware, on guard and have all my ducklings dabbling in a row all to make some better kind of show unhappy my nerves are snapping the humors are drawn out needle thin while stubbornness drags me up and down and up again Poetry by Meloo/Melissa A Howells This Author Retains ALL legal rights to ideas and written work on Tilt-a-World Copyright June 16, 2014 Vote for this poem |
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