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  • '... I want to know if you can get up
    after a night of grief and despair
    weary and bruised to the bone
    and do what needs to be done
    to feed the children...."
    from 'The Invitation' by Oriah Mountain Dreamer


    it's been one week
    and I'm too damn tired to slap on
    that bright and shiny plastic smile
    and say all the stupid pointless, and hollow words,
    to pointless, hollow plastic people - with shiny smiles - who don't,
    give even the slightest of damns,
    to whom,
    it has never occurred
    to give a damn,
    about anyone but,

    it's been one week, and
    the best I can do is put my head down
    to sneak the odd nap,
    and hope I don't drool on my arm.

    one week, and I still wish they did,
    give a damn, that is
    I think,
    that they
    Give-A-Fucking -Damn
    that we're in so much pain over here,
    HELLO.... can you see me?
    can anyone see us?
    fuck it.

    but thinking and wishing
    for people to be different doesn't
    do anything but make me more nuts,
    and today I quit bashing my head
    against that glass wall.
    today, I walk away.

    today, I made myself some goddamn tea
    and lit a goddamn candle,
    because, somehow that's suppose to help
    I have no fucking clue what.

    and now I'm writing word, after word, after Mother-Fucking Word,
    that mean absolutely nothing, it's just my
    word vomit on a page,
    I'll write till I can't anymore, then
    I'm going to draw some really ugly lines,
    some terrible pictures,
    and doodles, that I will hate, and I'll crumple them all up,
    and throw them at the wall

    and I wonder
    why it is I haven't cried yet (except for that one time).
    shouldn't I be crying?
    shouldn't I be on the floor sobbing?
    I mean really, this is really awful stuff, the stuff of every parent's nightmares
    and all I can manage is tired
    and occasionally snippy?
    what the fuck wrong with me?

    I'm just so damn tired,
    my stomach feels like cold black stone, and
    a boot is stomping down, Hard, on my chest, and I can't breath
    but no tears, no time for tears.

    maybe I'm tired enough to finally see,
    really see
    who the love comes from,
    who is my tribe, who will hold us, and sustain us.

    the rest are dross.


    "What thou lovest well remains, the rest is dross
    What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee
    What thou lov'st well is thy true heritage...."
    from Ezra Pound's 'Canto LXXXI'
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