Just a poem about utensils on a Windy Sunday Night

Feb 4, 2008

I’m the silly sabateur of me

Instead of squeezing every last drop of happiness

from the power pack of love

I doubt, deviate, deconstruct

I find reasons for my reasons that aren’t real reasons

at all *

Just anti fairy tales wedged between the words

on the pages of a conjured crescendo (they do have many pages, you know)

some other author’s success at derailing me from now

pushing my mind, me, out to sea

 My childhood was filled with fantasies, you see

and horror

and fantasties

and more horror

gem-like moments of what is good did twinkle now and then, however

so let me put a little mellow in this drama…

Because even serial killers smile sometimes

and while I’m no Bundy

I’m not always a good girl either

not always a good friend

sister

daughter

girlfriend

roommate

dog owner

co worker

student

Sometimes I suck, in fact

those hats too small for my big head

swelling with ideas

impulses, urges, arguments

or

Sometimes I’m conflicted

an afternoon chess player unsure of where to move her King

fine with losing

so fine in fact that it reaks of intent

So if you’re gonna be bad

shouldn’t you just be really bad

leave out the punctuation

twist the knife

instead of poking

proding

pricking

para-phrasing

playing games that come soooo close

to a run on sentence

right smack into a very bloody heal

spider squashesque

When what the situation really calls for

isn’t a knife

but a fork

to stick it in

with force 

and run…

*At this moment in 2008, I was in a very WRONG relationship. My heart and soul were trying to tell me to end it and quick! But I wasn’t brave enough. I thought I was the one with the problem. BUT – the subconscious tells us everything we need to know… through dreams… and poetry.

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