She twitches, almost unseen
Muscle drought from not spotting
Her object of obsession
A circle of madness moves through
Her feet, the wind from her glacial sorrow
Forms icicles on the bottom
Of her skirt, covering her toes
Marching, in a nervous watery snow
Such sorrow on her birthday
Forehead, drawn over brown smudged
Eyelids, the bad vibes falling as the sky
Collapsed, her happy self becomes
Merely carbon traces
In a sea of delusional wishes
“Bad bad bad” were the
final words
she deigned to
speak
See more progress on: write a (sloppy, half-formed if need be) poem every day (or so) during June 2010
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