Silly Thing

Discussion in 'Poet's Corner' started by BelovedDreamer, Mar 28, 2012.

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  1. BelovedDreamer

    BelovedDreamer Well-Known Member

    Sometimes I cannot imagine how I came to be here.
    I have embodied failure as a way of life.
    I wake in the morning
    breathing breath composed purely of fear.
    I eat my breakfast thoughtlessly
    taking great mouthfuls of a scone lathered with apathy.
    I step out of the house
    clothed in a mantle knit of despair.
    Some days I do not step from the house at all.
    I simply sit, waiting apprehensively, for nothing.
    Occasionally, I wake enough to wonder where she has gone,
    the self that was.
    I miss her terribly and worry at a particular thought
    as though it were a bone—
    I worry that she never existed at all.
    I am a figment of my own diseased imagination.
    Not the me that is now.
    Who would think to make up such a tepid, wretched creature?
    No, the me that was.
    To think
    that my hand once made art and I judged it beautiful and rejoiced in creation,
    that my head once held dreams (not just nightmares, dreams!) and thought them precious,
    that my body once felt almost as though it belonged to me,
    that my self lived, and thought, and ate a breakfast
    with fear as only a background noise (most of the time),
    and not a master.
    To think.
    Would that I could resurrect that self.
    I would have her back, faults and all.
    To think, she thought she was a muddle then,
    she should see the debacle that would crawl forth.
    She may have doubted her worth, but she knew she had it.
    I miss her so, silly thing.
  2. Witty_Sarcasm

    Witty_Sarcasm Eccentric writer, general weirdo, heedless heathen

    Sorry you feel this way :hug: I really like this poem.
  3. BelovedDreamer

    BelovedDreamer Well-Known Member

  4. TigersMomJ

    TigersMomJ Active Member

    I really like this!
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