Slate Grays

my hands are dry and rough from working
my eyes are small and used to squinting
my stature average, verging on petite
I have thin skin and veiny feet
my complexion’s poor, my tone is pale
genes say my bones will be quite frail
I have no nails as they are weak
my voice is too high when I speak
my mother thinks my hair’s too long
I think all compliments are wrong
I’m a sceptic, sometimes too much so
though I try to be fair to friend and foe
my opinions strong, my manner shy
in public you’ll never see me cry
in private I keep emotions tame
my anxiety has that cause to blame
I hate to shop, but buy a lot
no place could ever be too hot
I dislike snow, I dislike cold
I’m terrified of getting old
I have good friends who understand
I’m always later than I plan
I’m sensitive, and feel more pain
than I let off, or care to explain
I never intentionally drink alcohol
and for this, flunk social protocol
I dislike freckles, and have a bunch
I bend, I slouch, I slump, I hunch
I get depressed but never treat
I just stay up late and never eat
somehow, I’ve seemed to manage this wreck
to keep my addictive tendency in check
though these faults I easily admit
I’d like to think there’s some good to it
I’ll never regret the time departed
for when I love, I love whole-hearted

    

      

Copyright L.M. 2008.

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A Lull

it’s sometimes pleasant, you know
cutting my heart open with letters
signalled from God? Fate? me?
I tear away at words
and that they hate is good
because it concerns them all
and fortune will fall into the lap
of those who understand it
so sleep away
nestled amongst stars
sought for by none, but wanted
and a step along tells me
that I have indeed come aways
so that I am tired should not surprise
a lull should be enough
clustered into a mimosa
is all I am
and, I’m afraid, all I’ll ever be

   

   

Copyright L.M. 2007. (written a few months ago as well as the next few I’m posting).

May

do you question, as I do
the time suffered painfully through
the churning of a constant true
and breaking wireless of a sort?

are you happy to report
the second coming last resort?
or would you rather just retort
within your stage and clamoring few?

a docile servant becomes you
adept at nothing, talent-proof
all hate raised to those who blew
the deflating bubble that surrounds you

all that’s matter, matters not then
what succeeds won’t be forgotten

Copyright L.M. 2007. (in a series of many written around the same time a couple months ago).