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a tip of the slung
by Laura Doomforgive me
for I know
exactly what I do
and
assuming that you care
I'm sorry that it's you
to breathe I must
withhold my breath
to feel, stay out of touch
to love, peruse thesauri
sketch impressions
with my crutch
for knowledge does not speak to choice
while unparsed silence steels my voice
the sneer of dream
as nightmares fall;
to play's the thing
to limp, is all. 06/04/2009 Posted on 06/03/2009
Copyright © 2024 Laura Doom
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Anita Mac on 06/05/09 at 11:52 PM I think I needed the same once. I feel this is a little odd for you. Good, but odd. |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 06/07/09 at 02:08 AM I keep wondering if you have a broken rib - don't ask..... just a silly thought. Those last two lines... |
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