Sometimes** I want to cut my eyelashes Off when I think of all the Stupid things I have done. I’d end them at the root ( The follicle ) Of their tormenting process And leave only the small stalk of Good that my intentions stemmed from In the very beginning ( Before they feathered out into Devastatingly long things, meandering Wisps ))) That interlock with others and Make the artist shiver when He tries to draw them (One By One) Sometimes I want to cut ( Down to the root of things ) To make sure that everything Started nobly And that all of the suffering is for a cause. Because my dark eyelashes have blond Tips that are obscured in the sunlight ( And cloaked by the night )) And I’m not sure if they actually ever end Because they rub against one another (((like Everything always leaves abrasions on the Edges of everything else))) And I never even notice the ripples in the Air molecules when I blink, Involuntarily and inevitably- A dark flash withers- Unnoticed-
An odd confession. It is the truth. I won an award for this poem... plus some stern words from my grandmother about being ******.