Poetry For Our Time

Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason. -Novalis

What happens when your waking hours are 2pm-4am

with 3 comments

When I awake,
my head a bowling ball
balanced on a toothpick,
the roof of my mouth burning,
my feet white with sweat,
my back folded and neck sharp,
I cannot find the clarity
or my hair in tendrils in your hands,
I wonder if my gut will feel tomorrow
as it does grasping at straws
of self-understanding today,
and I desperately need to find my heart
in that small corner of pillow that I call
sleep.

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Written by Molly M M

February 2, 2009 at 5:06 am

Posted in Poem, Uncategorized

3 Responses

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  1. At first I thought your title was Jack Bauer-inspired, but then I realized your poem was life-inspired and I love it.

    crazyenglishteacher

    February 2, 2009 at 11:09 am

  2. haha, i wish it was jack bauer inspired! speaking of which… gotta go…

    windfriction

    February 3, 2009 at 2:17 am

  3. bowling ball on a toothpick…nice.

    Whose hands?

    cd40

    February 3, 2009 at 5:54 am


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