i am a body bag
full to the brim of
inadequacy, sure to sweep
you away with the same
seventeen words, all
bruised like ill-handled
peaches at the end of summer
as the farmers saunter off
towards fall's freshest fruits.
i bled green because envy
seeps from my pores; i lived a thousand
lives and still they all mix
together in monotonous shades
of gray.
we live and live and live
and get hurt; i have been
hurt but yet i cannot say
i have lived. which realization
is the more bitter?
in what world are these
two things never hand in hand?
i am weak and bitter and
poor where i am to be
rich.