a nervous sort of humiliation,
but above a sense of relaxation
found only through my future's might.
for i am not a doll,
i grow and hate and spit.
i jump back and forth from cupboard to shelf,
put on my shoes all by myself.
making mistakes like it's my
job,
i yell and dance, whisper and sob.
frowning more than smiling,
laughing more than trying.
my cheeks aren't painted ruby red,
they are pale and porous instead.
for one is worse than the other,
a better good
misunderstood
by anyone who isn't me.
so take your pictures of the empty head,
then when it's old,
find it under your bed.
i like this.
ReplyDeletehow about you write songs.
ReplyDeleteok.
Yeah. You should write a book now. Publish it tomorrow.
ReplyDeleteOkay, that came of as a bit blank.
ReplyDeleteWhat I wanted to say is that I admire your writings and they are some of the best I have come across in the Blogosphere.
for real? wow. its all off the top of my head... i vent this way. haha. maybe i should publicize... baha.
ReplyDeleteyeah I really really liked this too.
ReplyDelete