Wednesday, May 22, 2013


It seems appropriate
To describe my restlessness
Like a sleepwalker desperate
To lie down
But finds herself walking unconscious.

It seems appropriate
To be thoughtful and gracious
Yet, I cannot find it within myself
To extend kindness
Though it is not asked of me.

It seems appropriate
To expect my Father to help
My ingrown awkwardness
My violent feelings-
My exasperation of self.

It seems appropriate
To want nothing more than healing
Nothing less than health
At the quickest instant
Her words to lose their affect
Words to lose their sting
Words to lose their meaning
Yet I cling, or they cling to me
Like burrs of a Velcro fruit.

It seems appropriate
To cry foul, or at least air the room
For it is still with musty ill-kept silence
There seems nothing to do,
Nothing to say,
No where to start,
No place to heal,
No one to bridge the gap,
Nothing more to add.
There is only dullness
And on my part, elusive waiting
Wanting to get away,
Feeling wronged,
Not getting out
Nor staying in.

I have so much to say
Yet cannot say it.
I have so much I wish to ask her
But trust not to speak my mind.
I have been desperate to understand
Yet have been so misunderstood.
I have longed for opportunities
That now, feels stale from waiting.
I want to be a friend,
But don’t know how.
I want to befriend,
But am not taught how.
I am upset by my lack of knowing
what is simply

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