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twelve hours the clock has and I stand near the top of the hour there are those that would surmise I'm nearly out of time I wonder if I've got enough some days left to stand in time is precious so then, why would I really need to stop or to dream about how I've paid for the stuff or wasted it why do I stop at all while these last precious bits sift through my fingers haven't I squandered enough I'll do it no longer I can't call the moments back except to recall them and in some ways the memory brings bitterness sometimes a wearying trickle of sadness but worse at night comes a uninvited gnawing anxious fear a feeling of wasting it leaves me feeling scooped out un-human staring specter-like into a darkness which seems to expand I wanted for something more and couldn't put my fingers 'round it what's unsettling is I might've played it safe so safe that I kept controversy to myself not wanting to make any current until I'd had enough if I were braver instead had ridden the crest of the waves these words come quite easily now with experience and age so much that swimming against the tide is now my past-time who are these people who seem to live their lives so effortlessly while I wear my struggle an armadillo I know I am who I was mostly leading with my chin always been told that I haven't learned and how to begin but never would follow another's direction I have my own I see clearly now for once that I've taken it (the mirror reflects at times, back to me, the deeper scars where I lead with my chin.) Copyright directly to the page September 5 2015 All Legal Rights Are Reserved By This Author Meloo/Melissa A Howells Straight From Her Tilt-a-World All ideas, rants, poetry/prose are the expressed legal property of this writer/author Edits made September 9, 2015 for greater clarity Vote for this poem |
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