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God.
This is not a religious poem. Are You listening? Is Your face behind the clouds? No, I see the clouds have blown away. I, too, now am dissipated. Why do You not speak aloud? Make Your voice a thunder? And did You make this fine day? Or has the day created itself? As we, each, must make our own way relying on poor dumb luck and pluck. I confess. I have a problem I didn't make. I cannot find the answer within myself. I cannot create happiness. Not within the sky. Why? Oh,...are You asking? I have no family nor neighbors. Left here, I am, left alone to only Your regarding eyes. I've heard You see all things. But I wonder if You're as wise as they say? Letting us/me muddle through it down here in this awful everyday way. I am one who's spent much of her life alone... Living in shadows while I was burnt by your sun. Am I a raisin? Or a human being? What does not kill us sometimes merely eats us. What does not kill us wears us down to defeat us. What does not kill us crawls and thrives making messes making us send out many many call distresses to the Skies that seem filled with Pall. Are You listening at all? You do not aid but listen dumb and blind. Sky of Pall, my throat is dry from calling; I guess You have forgotten to mind the store. Or left it carelesly in the care of the killers. Copyright August 12 2001 Melissa A Howells Meloo Tilt-a-World I found this in an old notebook....so I added this in. I wrote this when I first moved to P-town. I was sad, lonely. I ammended and edited it to adhere to my sense of writing today. Vote for this poem |
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