hates herself, she
ratmando
Posts: 347
she denies any love is truly hers
The tears she cried have given up their usefulness anymore.
As the paper peels from a forgotten guest room,
The only sounds are the drippings from a leaking tub
The echo helps her sing there sits as moon peeks a glow in tune.
There lost between her memory and the walls
I swear laughter grew like the oak outside strong, and tall.
But she can't bring herself to step down to a rage drooping aged stoop,
The cruelty of children only echoed by those parents who scream out
"That fat sow is nothing now except the local rumored ragged witch."
It's a better life to ditch being seen, no mirrors or reflections all rubbed out
Yet thirty years ago, maybe not so long between you and I
It was said her long hair seemed to glow the blossoms of the tulips in her eye
Some men sat at her feet while she sang feeding them any meat she had.
Her future blessed by suitors seeking her voice and her hand
Finally a day came and no man came around because her springtime beauty
Was frozen darkly in the mindset of a Midwestern disgust of anyone
Who was different in the homogeneous, stagnation of the world all around.
She learned that she must hate herself. Jealous men, gossipy township's fuels.
Her beauty best forgotten, and songs best hidden darkly in a house of three rooms.
There is no sense of fitting into a world where art was considered the greatest sin
And all of the others claimed each hearing voices of gods saying so.
Herself hated, she could breathe air and be whomever she is but
No on would see her, and mystery would hide as a friend
On the day she finally met her end.
Could it have been a jealous wife or rejected suitor who took her life
On the day she would have crossed the age of fifty years?
Or was touching no one, feeling gone, for so many years alone this
Long, that slipped that blade far into bathing arms?
A balloon had landed miles away that said she had enjoyed
The cake, made from things canned from another war
She left no name, so no one knew to bury Catholic, or a Jew,
So the paupers world remained her soul soil home.
Just this month a man came by with chocolates shaped like butterflies
And asked if I could sing some song again. He heard while
I strung up clothes and washed off my legs with a garden hose
And swore to me my hair glowed ember fires. But I have no
Time for the man, who probably would not be able to stand
Me once the song had ended and the tune had bruised by my
Aging voice. I probably won't be outside again, no one wants to
See what I really am, except on Halloween when the bets have all been placed
No one will ever again see my aging face.
The tears she cried have given up their usefulness anymore.
As the paper peels from a forgotten guest room,
The only sounds are the drippings from a leaking tub
The echo helps her sing there sits as moon peeks a glow in tune.
There lost between her memory and the walls
I swear laughter grew like the oak outside strong, and tall.
But she can't bring herself to step down to a rage drooping aged stoop,
The cruelty of children only echoed by those parents who scream out
"That fat sow is nothing now except the local rumored ragged witch."
It's a better life to ditch being seen, no mirrors or reflections all rubbed out
Yet thirty years ago, maybe not so long between you and I
It was said her long hair seemed to glow the blossoms of the tulips in her eye
Some men sat at her feet while she sang feeding them any meat she had.
Her future blessed by suitors seeking her voice and her hand
Finally a day came and no man came around because her springtime beauty
Was frozen darkly in the mindset of a Midwestern disgust of anyone
Who was different in the homogeneous, stagnation of the world all around.
She learned that she must hate herself. Jealous men, gossipy township's fuels.
Her beauty best forgotten, and songs best hidden darkly in a house of three rooms.
There is no sense of fitting into a world where art was considered the greatest sin
And all of the others claimed each hearing voices of gods saying so.
Herself hated, she could breathe air and be whomever she is but
No on would see her, and mystery would hide as a friend
On the day she finally met her end.
Could it have been a jealous wife or rejected suitor who took her life
On the day she would have crossed the age of fifty years?
Or was touching no one, feeling gone, for so many years alone this
Long, that slipped that blade far into bathing arms?
A balloon had landed miles away that said she had enjoyed
The cake, made from things canned from another war
She left no name, so no one knew to bury Catholic, or a Jew,
So the paupers world remained her soul soil home.
Just this month a man came by with chocolates shaped like butterflies
And asked if I could sing some song again. He heard while
I strung up clothes and washed off my legs with a garden hose
And swore to me my hair glowed ember fires. But I have no
Time for the man, who probably would not be able to stand
Me once the song had ended and the tune had bruised by my
Aging voice. I probably won't be outside again, no one wants to
See what I really am, except on Halloween when the bets have all been placed
No one will ever again see my aging face.
When I hear music, I fear no danger. I am invulnerable. I see no foe. I am related to the earliest times, and to the latest.
Henry David Thoreau
Henry David Thoreau
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