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 Feb 2020 Hannah Christina
Vic
I might be a little happy,
But I'm not sure yet
A poem every day.
17-2-20
My soul is
imprisoned
in this cold
& dense core
that stops
emitting light
Sorrow and pain
have consumed all
i once had
Now i am
nothing
but a process
of contraction
& a floating
dead star
Don't
come near me
i can't offer
but swallow
the light
Heart still beating,
blood still moving,
head still hurting,
and eyes still blinking.
I’m alive.
Alive,
and still here.
A little loneliness    
that is all I want  
But the world is an old TV
it can't be turned off    
pictures fuzzing  
sounds humming    
emotions being tossed about    
Just now I was hit by  
a huge yellow ball of anxiety    
followed by a yell:  
"Come on, throw it back! Be a part!"  
But I didn't want to be a part  
so I did nothing but let it go...  
A little loneliness    
That is all I need    
before I jump into the next moment
conflicts between outside and inside. Sometimes I hope the outer life is a TV set and there is a button to shut it off.
Some days are faceless
Like reticent shadows
of their buoyant sisters
Infertility in the air
Giving no sight of
A fruit of possibilities
some days are just emptiness
Dinner by candlelight
underneath the stairs, down
in the bomb shelter,
dancing to love, peace, and paranoia.
An evening called quiet
resentment, where there's
canned goods and children's games,
Duck & Cover,
or if you prefer,
Heimlich Maneuver.
Then little sleepy heads
go gently into their bunkered beds.
They might not outlive
the threat, but
the plan has a half-life of a chance.
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