lbressler
I am dead.
Quite literally, my skin rests statically under oak under dust.
Dead, but blinking.
Dead, but dreaming.
I thought this was a website for poetry.
When I read all the paragraph, chock-full-of-sentences, prose-ridden language, I blinked.
This is the community of words.
A community
of
ideas.
When I sold Girl Scout cookies, I quickly came down from my prime age.
8 years old = cute.
9 = annoying.
Somewhere after nine I resolved never to sell things to people ever again.
The papers were stacked neatly on top of mahogany. His office looked like a courtroom show TV set. I tugged at the bottom of my skirt, aware of the silence.
In the palm of my hand
There is a bookworm
Who has been evicted from the space between Chapter One and page 3
And relocated to the fleshy curves of my right ring finger
Like a fly atop a popcorn ceiling,
I listen and observe.
Kaleidoscopic vision
Minimal impact.
This is contentedness.
sometimes
I remember the dreams
between acceptable awake-ness
and drowsy 5ams
I shudder
this is not a reflection
of my thoughts.