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Hope Is Sometimes The Best Of All You've Got (definition poem)

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Adjusting: Define. What Does It Mean? Grey Geography.


Lately, I haven't felt the need of it,
the necessity of it,
a metaphorical laying on of leeches
to suck the marrow of daily poisons from
my system.


The waters have been calm.
But tonight the tides have arisen unexpectedly,
the floods have attempted to drown me,
proverbially,
in my own stew.
The words, filled with their old ideas have returned.
And a blood-letting of suffering through
language is all that is plausible,
all that I can do.


Weary and talking with an old friend,
when the past sauntered back to greet me,
in jack boots and brown shirt,
its breath reeking with over-familiarity,
I found my old fears, still palpable.
 

The place where my ribs converge
began to ache.
And my throat burned as I shoved the fist of
memory down my throat and recalled:


How some would not let me be me.
How some would not let me eat.
How their conditional love
invaded me so deeply, that
as a child I learned not to be
angry, weep nor sleep.


How I learned to avoid the
randomness of their disdain.
And the twin-too-familiar fates
of disapproval and physical pain.
Often, how I felt
they yearned for
my removal.
I grew good a hiding
behind the borders of
their arbitrary perusals.


Did I make them uncomfortable,
because I wore a certain vulnerability.
I didn't confuse honesty.
Had too much curiosity.
Plus, the audacity to think:
I was more than
a lesser-than
opinion.


Years later I still think on
how I survived
but sometimes feel the tweak
of fear. I left the grey geography.
Did I find the cure?




Copyright Easter Morning 3am-ish March 30, 2013
All Rights Reserved By Author
Written Directly to the Page.

Melissa A Howells   Meloo straight from her Tilt-a-World







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