October 7 - Poetry



Of course, when I sit alone in my space,

My refuge when I no longer wish to be human,

I smoke, horrible, and think -

Dreaming of times when I was a thought

And not just a smear upon the wall.

Perhaps this is melodramatic; a sign of weakness

Among those who live for the written word

But I must confess that I am

In this way…unhappy.

Sacrificed like so many other times

When I was young and flexible like putty

Able to be molded into whatever others wished of me

Now, the clay is hardened;

Whatever was last implanted upon me

Has remained.

So, I drink tea made of clouds to forget

And instead turn myself towards the unseen

To melt my clay and give me sanity.

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