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Poetry

Buried at birth

I am beginning to feel the pangs of being

Some painting one is ashamed of

and keeps facing the wall

In a basement storage room,

The stench of mildew intensifying

With every day that I sit here.

Y’know, I don’t mind so much.

After all, it is terribly amusing, I must say

To be meant for display,

Yet to function as an absorber of musty air

And only be viewed

By a visitor or two.

Is this how it was meant to be?

Perhaps, admiration in sunlit rooms

Never even was; maybe this, this darkness,

Is the only beauty to be had

In a world of unbearability.

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Favorites Poetry

Pin cushion

Okay, so, my face is full of little pins and needles

That I stick there when I’m not using them.

They don’t bother me, and I just keep sticking

As I sit, hemming endless lengths of fraying fabric.

Suddenly, there comes a wave, a sudden freezing of my face,

Prickling at a million nerve endings, throbbing with defeat.

Enough, enough! There are far too many, though I never thought I’d see the day;

There are too many, and I clutch at the needles that fill my skin.

I rip them out, wailing piteously, spewing convoluted complaints

Concerning everything, save for what ails me.