Sunday, September 8, 2013

Poems & Procrastination

I know.  I can't stop writing.  This is the only thing that makes me feel better.  Ironically... I'm writing in here so much that I'm procrastinating the writing I'm supposed to do for work.

I worry that it will simply spill out of me.
Just as the tears flow, and sobs surprise,
I worry that it will be told to an enemy.
I can't know enemies though, until I see their eyes.

Some can bandy it about like a joke,
A simple little trivial detail.
I feel like it's likely to evoke,
Anger, frustration, even betrayal.

I know I can't keep holding it in,
As emotions grow more and more erratic,
It's the fear of them spotting the sin,
That keeps the secret in my attic.

I crave for one, just one real human being,
I can trust, and tell, and they'll support my weary heart.
I can't stand having so much love no one's seeing.
I can wait no more for old to end, and new to get its start.

I go on.
I don't think.
I feel fine.
I live life.

Then a picture comes in view,
All I wanted, at his shoe.
Pick it up, kick it away,
He can have it all his way.

I fight, and scrape, and sing my song,
I dance and shout, all the day long.
I'm the bird with the wounded wing.
It's some rare perhaps extinct breed that hears me sing.

I watch it work.
It seems so natural.
She likes him, he likes her,
I can only watch, analyze, infer.

I watch it work.
I try my hand.
It's another skill--
It's another tree where I cannot land.

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