All my stories have become myths.
There are no fair tales but those
that belong to the lives of others.
I look into the faces and eyes of people
on the street hoping for respite,
but they appear as strangers.
Today I wish to be barely acquainted with myself,
I wish I had no knowledge of family and was orphaned.
Inside are lies and a hollow tunnel, where I once was a whole.
I hear the dark whistling in me nightly.
I don't believe in fate, but I have been
drubbed by the heavy thumb of misfortune.
Though I've endeavored not to embrace negativity,
it has taken hold,
though I've fought it most un-quietly.
Some say it my own thumb and that
I am, indeed, the real misfortune?
I know I've felt the weight of it, palpable.
If I were braver, I would lop it off, cast the thumb away,
arm myself as a surgeon would with a mental scalpel.
Yet, sleep and peace elude me still
there is no true peace in my current restless slumber.
There are no fair tales I can cleave to now,
while my serene inner life has become a kind of blunder,
become too bad a sport for me,
a hot bouncing ball for my butter-fingered mind to fumble.
Copyright November 17, 2012 All Rights Reserved by this Author /////4am
I had to go back and write and rewrite this. Seems trouble troubles the
"good/common sense" part of the intellect...and this (poem) was encumbered by the
nonsense of grave regret and sorrow
Melissa A Howells Meloo from her Tilt-a-World
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