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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 Vote for this poem |
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