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Dec 2015
I am a poet
when I speak, I speak
when I listen, I listen
and when I write a hole is created
inside of my chest which nothing can fill
do you like what you are seeing?
sometimes in the middle of the night
I crawl back into the cave I came from
and imagine if all of it wasn't real
the grass is green but I didn't water it
so I can't make any metaphor about what
is on the other side or how the work you
put into it always comes back threefold
if I was to explain something to somebody
I would automatically arrange it into a list
you always had a particular look about this
found my unwillingness to write paragraphs
endearing and romantic, but obnoxious
said my brain works in one to tens-
but wait my heart must beat that way too
I count the times you water it, the times I do
I count everything in shades of grey
sometimes I wonder if the grey I'm surrounded
by was white that I accidentally threw my black into
maybe it was pure and I let it all dribble too many times
or maybe it was just something I was born into
speaking of being born, on his death bed my
dad told me about the feeling in your chest you
get when you know something isn't right
the way your eyes shake, the inner conscience
that comes out to play through your pupils
pupils tell a lot about a person
what makes something turn green?
I always say stuff about my dad on his
deathbed but in actuality he was nine
hundred miles away in a hospital bed
with nobody except a prison guard
and the handcuffs on his wrist
he died a painful death, alone
sometimes when you mock me
I want to show you the venom
I have inside of my veins
I'm nobody's, not even my own
I'm something completely
uncharted and untouched.
sometimes when I think of my dad
tied to a bed taking his last deep breathes
I wonder if death is something that's
pre-programmed into us when we're
born or if our fate is somehow up to us.
without honesty, without trials
without any of these abundant emotions
we're just on boring and borrowed time
no matter what words you make a bow out of
the truth of the matter will always be shown in
how green our grass is and how alive our eyes look
matilda shaye
Written by
matilda shaye  25/F/CA
(25/F/CA)   
847
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