“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label looking glass. Show all posts
Showing posts with label looking glass. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 16, 2015
Looking (for a) Glass
I don't need to tell you,
you've already found it.
I don't know how, most people don't
look that hard.
I don't know if I'm happy you did-
which doesn't move me to change
places, here.
I don't mind being stashed
cached in the very dark back,
be-hind-sight
out of the light.
I don't take up too much space-
which is why I haven't been cast out
yet, I'm easy to forget, easy to lose
sight of.
I don't detract from the ones right
in front, pulled out, polished
and put back so pretty-
most often that's not me.
I'm not fine or porcelain, stamped or etched.
I'm not clear but clouded with a chip
where you're likely to put your lip,
yet I still hold water and have dusty hope
built up that someone will reach over
the others for me.
Every time a door opens, I tremble.
I think they can see me too, like you
while I'm lying low, but no,
I'm just a back-up cup.
Overflow, you know when
extreme circumstances make
desperate measures, hot or cold
I will hold.
I don't want anyone else to see
all of these stains inside of me-
the ones you've already seen
and aren't afraid of making more
as you pull me up and take me out
-I pour-
wanting your bloody lips all the more.
Image by Aurélio de Figueiredo (1894) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
Versmilitude
I have 3,463 reasons
to hate me
as seen through the spectacled
looking glass
learning pupils of others eyes
believing in
All truth be told
From inside the fishbowl
a ripple effect goes nowhere
waves of distortion
roll by in wakes
blown out of proportion
To see is to know
What you Do shows
I suppose
better than what you Are...
barely there
thin as a rail
hardly frail
by contrast
and that pale glow
(if you would like to know)
ghostly ashen skin
is not so thin.
Deemed some dame or debutante
with nothing to flaunt
talent, imbalance,
withstanding-
Despite the empathetic understanding
I squeezed into the mold
(as I was told)
now my metallic blood runs steely cold.
I tremble
at your thoughts of me
and the terrible what nots you see
that I cannot spot
any resemblances.
A two-way mirror
absorbs one reflection
shattering a reality
piercing in severe observation
a practice in futility
noticing the nothings
lacking depth perception
merely a dimension of what
you thought you saw
was me
was you too.
Image Guillaume Bodinier [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. (Confession c. 1826).
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