meloostraightfromhertilt-a-world

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THE MILES THAT ARE LEFT TO GO...

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

Great Big Waterproof World

After Wide Sargasso Sea

If Prejudice Were Dumb And Could Not Speak



All Beings Considered

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

A Little Bit of Harlem in Your Life

The Dreaming Life ( A Series Of Dream Vignettes)

Burying the Dark

So Glad I Met You

Being Ourselves...

Knock, Then Come Through

I Need To Fly

To Them, I am Dead, I am Dead

I Turn Forward

Uncovered

Beyond Door Number Three

Little Man Orange--My Mister Peanut Butter Trout

Someone Send Out A Search Party

The Blue Buffalo

THE STITCH IN THE TELEPHONE WIRES

The Springtime Shadows Play Games Upon The Wall

The Differences

Wisdom of the Infinite

Not Someone's Grand Illusion

The Storm

Patch-Worked Trilogy

And Then It Wasn't Hard To Be Eight Years Old

Prairie Town Progress

Great Spirit

Elise, Elise

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I'm not like anyone
you might know
there may not have been a mold

its not false pride
nor terminal unique-ness
that I'm infected with

the world is a large place
and I spent the early portion of my life
living under circumstances
beyond my control

children cannot select their parents

I had to embrace my
different-ness to survive
I'd no other choice
persist
or dive down a hole

At eight I began to find
solace in running away
I'd load up my bike
and head to the winding river's edge
south of town

I didn't like night sounds
nor the dark
still it was the preferable
alternative

I chose to leave
when I felt I had no other
choice
otherwise
I knew
I could be obliterated
or maybe
I'd explode

It was better to be lost
afraid in the dark
and in the late morning
to lay exhausted in the
hot noon-day sun
screaming at the clouds
when I wanted to

I was purified
living through my fear--
and knowing without any doubts
I could make it
through almost anything
on my own

lying about being an orphan
was closer to the truth
than fiction
and there was no reason
to rue the lie

today at sixty
I face the same challenges
again I am alone
Any illusion of having my real original family
is long gone

it was a fiction
an impossilbe ideal
like a sitcom on t.v.
I was no longer some little child
who clung to the hope
of being considered
acceptable
enough
to be loved

its odd
isn't it
how sixty can be grown-up
in years
but somehow
not enough time has passed
to drown the past

how it comes back to me
when I close my eyes
in dreams
with the dead
and half-living murmuring into my
shriveled ears
and even now..

in the morning when I wake
I have to vigorously shake the ghosts from
my head
since, to them
I am dead
I am dead

morning can be so cold.



legal copyright for this poem/rant 11:49 PM PST Oct 8 2020 time/date stamped
and also for this legally copyrighted and registered site title
Meloo Straight From Her Tilt-a-World
and also for this Author/Poet Melissa A. Howells






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