~ I inherited my mothers stress
~ like shapes of toes and furrowed brows.

She's beautiful.
The picture that she paints of growing up is like
a weight upon my shoulders
as the beautiful, the promising,
leaves organic dreams in hopes
that newborn baby boy will find them later.
Then a daughter came.

It filled him to the brim
with fear.
A daughter
not a boy
a daughter.
How is one supposed to hold a girl?

~ I have his tired eyes
~ -all my father's worry lines.

He's wonderful.
His picture rambles through a childhood
thieved away by illness
stolen swiftly by the turns of fate-
a boy who's body grew
(while years of never healing Mom wore on)
so that the child inside could not keep up.
The boy in there was crying
all the while
the markings strong of Man
appeared outside of him.

[Another daughter]
[Second try]

She strives to be their butterfly
but finds her colours wrong
she's painted inside out
and knows her only hope
is to become the shining idol they recall
from long lost memories of thriving immortality
and running on forever
on forever
as her soles give out beneath.

04/16/2004

Author's Note: I'm running. God, why does it always feel as if I'm running and why are there never arms to run into to stop the world from turning so that one day I wouldn't have to feel so thrown around? but I can't throw the torch down. I can't let it up. I can't stop till I'm down to the bone and even then I'll keep to the grind stone and waste away in blood and tears. The pains muted like the academic backpack that grinds into my shoulder for 6 hours of the day. That backpack carries the weight of one single facet of my life and even with it on my shoulder (which has grown pretty accustomed to pain) I 'm dragged down. I'm tired, and I wish to god that for once I had someone just hold me tight and so still I can't move long enough for me to just breathe or break down. Why am I so on the edge? Why can't I trust enough to not disgust myself? I'm in love and I still bite my fingernails. Help me get through this, I don't know just what it is but I'm sick to my stomach and home's not enough, away's not possible.

Posted on 04/17/2004
Copyright © 2024 Trisha De Gracia