April 7, 2014 § Leave a comment

I write in the hopes
of pulling out the basket
from the well
of my dreams and aspirations
lost in old age/hope/procrastination,

A misfortune
when the basket is at sight
with none but
adverse memories I dislike
of those long tell-tales
of lies whispered by my side
and pullings of my hair
or kicks to the side of my stomach
as I am pushed
to the floor to roll
a turn and two and four
a dream, lost followed by the other

A flood of thoughts
when even writing
doesn’t seem to bring forth
any advancement to
this state of dismay,

I still hold the pen
pressed on the paper
in the hopes
that the next time
I pull out the basket
I see chocolate-dipped fruits of colour
wrapped in pink ribbons

though currently lying, staring
at the ripped strand
and the cracks on the floor
with echoes of ignominious laughter.

I am still hoping
wretched, lost, in the hopes
I will never reach.


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