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 Jan 2016 Bintae D Anderson
Miki
I only write when I'm lonely
Only sing when I'm alone
Only talk to
A chosen few
And I never get to moan

I don't have a muse
Aside from idleness
I don't have a home
Just temporary nests
I don't know anyone
I just think I do
Like I used to think
That I knew you

I'm lonely quite often
Even though im surrounded
I'm never content with my lovers
No matter how good they did
Oh to be courted.

It's somewhat like observing

The bird of paradise tidy up.
Immaculate his display, his stage.

He proceeds to dance.
Hopelessly invested. Commited

To his caper. To her acquiescence.
Disgruntled
Dissatisfied
Discontented
Aggrieved

Resentful
Fed up
Unhappy
Displeased
If I could still write poetry-

I'd write about how you betrayed me.
I'd make it a lyrical nursery
That gently cradled all my insecurities.

They'd bounce around from wave to wave,

Like an ominous symphony.
Synomous to love,
yet fueled by defeat.

If I could still write poetry.

I'd write about being second best,
I'd write about loosing you, and
Above all else- loosing rest.

If I could somehow still write-

Maybe this feeling would flee.
Perhaps then I could show you.
Perhaps then you could see.

— The End —