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The day I became a poet was a sunny day of no particular ominousness. I was scuttling along in my usual furtive way, suspecting no ill, when a large invisible thumb descended from the sky and pressed down on the top of my head. A poem formed. It was quite a gloomy poem: the poems of the young usually are. It was a gift, this poem – a gift from an anonymous donor, and, as such, both exciting and sisnister at the same time.

(Margaret Atwood, lecture on poetry writing)




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Wednesday, August 10, 2005
say the souls who'd like to try
i lip-read and hear their voices in my head
i stare at people and read
"how are you?"
"how do you do?"
"how's life?"
on their faces
behind this pane of glass
i keep between me and the press
of people out there.

i'm scared of my skin grazing theirs
of hot breath and sweat behind my ears
so i smile in my cool artificial air
nod and brush my hair
and wonder what it's like to be
with people out there.

i push them but hold on to their wrists
thinking my decisions are way better than this,
this choice to be apart, by myself
and yet still be out of my cell
and know myself as i know them well,
the people out there.


Posted at 12:17 pm by peaches

slither dude
November 14, 2005   10:16 AM PST
 
it's good to remember how it was inside.
 

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