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Thursday, 14 April 2016

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It feels like my insincerity is making a noose around my neck.

This narrative is laughable.

The light burns inside.

In the end, my end will be others beginning.

Grind my bones into dust and a singsong for the children when they sleep.
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1 comment:

  1. Unknown16 April 2016 at 17:15

    Hey. I love this poem. I've been following your blog by email for awhile now. I'm a poet myself and if you ever want to collaborate on anything or bounce work off one another, let me know. We can discuss what we're reading, too. I've been thinking of commenting for awhile, and when I saw this poem in my inbox I decided to go ahead. You can hit me back at lisamariemclemore@gmail.com . I have a website that lists some of my publications at lisamclemore.com . :)

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