Saving Grace
Burnt twice past
a Sunday,
I’m not sure
it's shyness,
this quiet way
in which I protest.
My feelings,
or the shadow
looming over
my scary lot,
is not as bizarre
as my screaming.
Who do you
think you are--
--my mother?!?!?
renews the shame
among the sad remains
of who I have become.
From the inside.
sticking too far out,
the frail sticks,
and heavy stones,
I used for bones
shatter at my feet.
Burnt twice past
a Sunday,
I’m not sure
it's shyness,
this quiet way
in which I protest.
My feelings,
or the shadow
looming over
my scary lot,
is not as bizarre
as my screaming.
Who do you
think you are--
--my mother?!?!?
renews the shame
among the sad remains
of who I have become.
From the inside.
sticking too far out,
the frail sticks,
and heavy stones,
I used for bones
shatter at my feet.
2 comments:
A familiar tale with an original twist. This last stanza is spectacular! Bravo!
oh my, thanks! and i took a quick peek at your poetry blog and suffice it to say, there is no such thing as a quick peek at your blog!
i can't wait to go back!
weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! woot!
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