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

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