Other people
don't let people
sit like tin dolls on the shelf
and wait for time
and irreality to mould them
into something else.
You knew better.
But you acted anyways.
You knew what the truth was.
But you acted as though you didn't.
There are no prophets, only
zendolls.
You wanted so hard to be out.
To be seeing.
Well, now you are love.
You are outside.
You are an outsider.
What do you love, love?
No, really. No, truly.
This center can hold and it will
but it *shouldn't*.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
us
some days I remember the lies you told me and i laugh at both of us at me, for wanting so badly to believe you at you, for having t...
-
To her daughter, sprawled on the floor with a stack of Google maps and sharpie, what are you doing dear? Looking for two way streets. W...
-
lucia berlin writes well. almost too well. her prose is descriptive, the imagery is fragrant, concrete, but repetitive. is all writing that ...
-
we were moving. it was a group effort. we had rented one of those big 18 wheeler trucks and used it to port everyone's things around. ev...
No comments:
Post a Comment