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Tommy Randell Nov 2019
Two songs from the mirror
Two dramas there at play
Her one which says all this is True
The other wears his game face

Each song a harmony of sorts
A two handed tale of mere soliloquy
The self and its ego there entertained
A duet of doubtful certainties

Who do I hear there in the mirror
As I wash the grime away?
Or is it just the old distant clamour
Conversations from better days?

Is my mother there... my father?
Which me is in my eye?
What mischief am I up to
In their quicksilver smiles?

A mirror for a gravestone
The true poet's destination
Making death look younger every day
With each ****** exhumation
I hate shaving but beards make me look like somebody else though with my eyes
Kirsten Hunt Jan 2019
I'm struggling with my identity.
My blood isn't my blood.
What about family?
They can't seem to understand the struggle.
My heredity is all messed up.
Who am I?
I've been struggling.
Em May 2016
Teach me about heredity -
Follow your mother's footsteps.
**Divorce her.
A fantasy sits on your fingertips - grab it.
Lucrezia M N Apr 2016
Even this latter
lingering emotionality
will vanish somehow,
masked behind an affable reflection,
but already collapsed
into a black hole.

Bigger and bigger.

Mastery of nothingness
in satisfying myself
as mute, stripped leaves
observing their art
of turning into glow of warmth.

Autumn’s heredity.

Fierce hyperbole is Melancholy,
remote and severe sixth sense,
obsidian monolith
in this too mild dimension.

Melodrama of light
is the vacuum of such empirism
saturated ad nauseum
by the ceaseless delay
of the most natural
and contemptuous ease.
... Yes, I'm an autumn child ...

— The End —