over coffee, my mug becomes a paper fan
and I am a Japanese lady
with my eyebrows plucked
and my hair drawn back
my face powdered whiter than snow.
I smile, hidden, safe behind watercoloured paper
You cannot touch me.
Imagining, till something snaps
deep down inside
I tumble through the darkest nights
searching through the dustbin in my soul for something real
Windmilling, finding nothing but nothing to break my fall
There's a point now, when, grasping everything around me
And holding things up to the light
Examining the artifacts of myself
I have to wonder
What is real and what is false
I'm a mystery, even to myself
The work of a girl-woman whose sole talents are writing and being lazy.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Thank you for at least considering to post a comment.
It means a lot to receive feedback about my writing and ideas.
If there is anything you would like to see more of/ less of, please let me know.
Have a great day,
Helen