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zita-nonie-hasenkampPoems
Should have never been born at all Not born at all is way With this face And this name Don't cry inside your paper house or Your paper hours comes crashing down More than what my mother said More than just a doll to dress More than just an empty head That couldn't ammount to less Am I What little I know about myself Is piled high upon a shelf Waiting for my mind to realign And find that I've been Starving my ego Having conversations With the skeletons in my closet Making fun of their Feeble spines But realizing So is mine Still too proud to apologize I tried to write a poem But ended up with a full waste bin And a dull safety pin Yet I don't mean to jeopardize The precision of your perfect lies Oh humanity I've tried To define myself with a dictionary Leaving fingerprints on the obituary The fabric scraps in my closet still Send me guilt from my grandmother In patterns from the sixties Oh one day when day when I'm dead and gone And know that life is much too long To spend as someone else My poems and my fabric will become Vintage pessimism in a shoebox Glowering down from someone else's shelf
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Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 6:29 PM UTC
Vintage Pessimism in a Shoebox
Should have never been born at all Not born at all is way With this face And this name Don't cry inside your paper house or Your paper hours comes crashing down More than what my mother said More than just a doll to dress More than just an empty head That couldn't ammount to less Am I What little I know about myself Is piled high upon a shelf Waiting for my mind to realign And find that I've been Starving my ego Having conversations With the skeletons in my closet Making fun of their Feeble spines But realizing So is mine Still too proud to apologize I tried to write a poem But ended up with a full waste bin And a dull safety pin Yet I don't mean to jeopardize The precision of your perfect lies Oh humanity I've tried To define myself with a dictionary Leaving fingerprints on the obituary The fabric scraps in my closet still Send me guilt from my grandmother In patterns from the sixties Oh one day when day when I'm dead and gone And know that life is much too long To spend as someone else My poems and my fabric will become Vintage pessimism in a shoebox Glowering down from someone else's shelf
zita-nonie-hasenkamp
Written by
zita-nonie-hasenkamp
18/Non-binary
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 6:29 PM UTC
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