The "Spared Lives" question my main motive, and I say, " It's because
You couldn't stop me."
Clumsy you, they ask why I fell, and I replied, " Why did you ever
Drop me?"
From others it stays hidden and overridden by my confusion
On how to share it,
How does one bare it?
So I declare it, not as a loss or a win but as a significant growth
From within,
Though this mad house has sheltered the many shades of my
Grin.
Chasing cars slightly provoking road rage,
Charming as a prince freed from a toads'
Cage.
How will the show go on if the theatre loses its'
Props?
Told to never miss a beat even when the music
Stops.
Feisty seekers of disclosure learn the secrets of
Exposure,
Controlling chaos, I've become composer of
Composure.
Giving up the ghost and all possessions that appear to be
Haunted,
Fighting the desire for needful things even the ones we never
Wanted.
Accepting karma while calling her out of her
Name,
Is "Love" to blame?
If Cupid chooses not to reload, will I then perfect my
Aim?
About the Creator
Michael avant
Hello fellow creators. In short I'm nothing more than a very big fan of this art form we all love called Poetry. Playing with words and thoughts, bending and twisting ideas is all part of this therapeutic yet challenging past time.
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Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley6 days ago in Fiction
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