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August Apr 2013
I've never felt at home
This isn't a place I know
The ceilings are too high
Strange things sit everywhere by & by
The people who reside there are strangers to me
I'd say that I'm the black sheep
But really, I'm the antelope
And they like antelope
Like baristas like bad music
And when they dip their finger in
Wrist deep next time, then again
'Till I'm left in the bottom of the *** kettle black
Scrounging around blind,
Trying to find what I lack
And all I hear are their pitiful laughs
As they fulfill their petty needs
With all of my earnings
And then they pick me up by the collar
Make sure to shake me loose of any last dollars
They toss me in the water for a long hard swim
The ***** water crashes into my mouth again & again
I choke and drown but fight this death
With each and every beaten, soapy, breath
I climb out wet and ragged and I crawl into my hideaway
They feel uncomfortable in there,
Dreams and love and art are not understood by them
And I look in the mirror
This poor, raggedy, sodden with soap and dirt, broken little girl.
Who could grow like wild flowers in different soil
Is limp and soft and
Her face hardens.
She goes to sleep another night.
And knows she fights tomorrow, the same fight
But she feels her chest harden tight.
Until she can plant the seed
In some other soil,
She'll till it out of love,
Not the turmoil.
No, not the turmoil.
There is plenty of that around.
Her seed will be put into the ground.
And she will grow next to the beautiful dawn.
He can watch her grow and feed her lovely rays.
He disappears at night,
But he comes back during the days.
And they can thrive together.
*Just have to get through the last of this bad weather.
© Amara Pendergraft 2013

Rough Draft

— The End —