Monday, October 10, 2011
POETRY: This Hand That’s Played By Sarah E. White
What should I tell you first?
Is there an order to say things?
An order to play things that will make you believe me?
Well then, I shouldn’t tell you that I am a liar
A very good one indeed
I have lied almost every day of my life
Lying about simple things like
Am I happy? Of course I am DearI am a good mother. Fiercely so
Am I good to a fault?
Like most things that are good, they are too good
For sometimes you have to be good
I am smart. So very smart, so clever am I
Like that kid who gazes out the window
You know the one with the lonely stareSitting silently in a slow death of boredom
Super smart yet flunking out in this classroom of lifeKnowing far too much
I am a cheater
I cheat on myself more than anyone I knowI can’t even trust myself to be myself
I am a fool who plays the role of me
I portray this part with more glamour than I really possess
I have too, otherwise who would watch?
I’m a murderer
I have killed my true self over and over
The heavy hand of the sickle falls on my dreams in the most perfect of ways
Out of need, out of desperation I killed those dreams and buried them deepI’m left only with this loosing hand
I am left only with me