I feel as if I've
spent half my life
sitting in a porch
with a notebook in my lap.
I'm not sure what it is
about porches and raining days,
but both of them are
environments for
writing out my now-heart.
Today I feel as
harsh as the wood grain,
pricking and snagging and
remarkably unbeautiful.
Most days I feel
like a sunflower;
today I feel more
like the stem.
I can't explain my mood
any more than I can
explain why I let
those fool-words hurt me.
I guess I'm just
lacking color
when I'm usually
soaked through with it.
Can someone please show me again
how to forget to be
grey.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
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