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********** ************* ***************** I saw myself on the silver screen the other day what I saw made me catch my breath it wasn't attractive I looked down and turned away I felt reduced down, simmered down into a few banal clichés like somehow I was over-cooked soup left out overnight to congeal unusual for me usually so full of words and not being able to put two of then together to make sense of my dread usually my words are flowing instead and more like poetry marching one after another how did I find myself a small ant scaling a larger ant-hill searching for meaning and why was I marching surely, time has set its course marching on it is the very nature of this beast I've been resenting time for marching all along this maybe foolish but it is what I've been doing bargaining where no bargain will ever be had "planned obsolescence," I thought, was a phrase paired and reserved for cars/machines not women I'm a flesh/blood animal however; I feel like a thing a rag set aside a ghost mostly invisible if I don't have a use then why am I here? is it necessary to be useful to be kind/reassuring to offer up womanly support my friendship in order to be considered not obsolete? some days I feel like soap in the sink small smaller and vanishing sometimes, when I look into the faces of others not all of them strangers I see the light leaving their eyes I know that light is me what is the indiscernible damnable hidden message? is it that........... women of a certain age don't have sex drives are somehow verboten off the menu unless its in some kink of a video have I become the mildewed Frau-Frau in the room my eggs no longer fertile Myrtle Yurtle The Turtle creeps on towards her rusted years near the unfinished line so, how can I be of service to you? how can I ingratiate myself into your line of sight? how can I make you see me in a world where wisdom and experience are polite euphemisms for expiration date looming? have I nothing of relevance for you? am I a can of peas that's proverbially put back on the pantry shelf what can you make out of mush but boredom and bile.... what do I do if there's no one left to service to prove I'm here... Eleanor R. surely knows who I am talking about women of a certain age I never would've believed it Greta stopped being the beauty she was at 40 because she thought she was irrelevant her public visa stamped cancelled out whose mirror was she looking into? I think I shall become immortal a vampire and shun all mirrors I find them offensive inaccurate I know who I am I am not irrelevant I am alive here and now. I am who matters. **************** *********** ****** *** * LEGAL COPYRIGHT FEBRUARY 9, 2017 7:02PM FOR THIS WORK/POEM AND BY THIS AUTHOR /WRITER MELISSA A HOWELLS AND FOR THIS LEGALLY COPYRIGHTED SITE TITLE: MELOO STRAIGHT FROM HER TILT-A-WORLD universe of stars, are you shining for me? Vote for this poem |
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