Of course, when I sit alone in my space
My refuge when I no longer wish to be human
I smoke, horrible, and think -
Dreaming of times when I was a thought
And not just a smear upon the wall.
Perhaps this is melodramatic; a sign of weakness
Among those who live for the written word
But I must confess that I am
In this way…unhappy.
Sacrificed like so many other times
When I was young and flexible like putty
Able to be molded into whatever others wished of me
Now, the clay is hardened;
Whatever was last implanted upon me
So, I drink tea made of clouds to forget
And instead turn myself towards the unseen
To melt my clay and give me sanity.
(Elmwood Cemetery - copyright Kimberly B. Richardson 2015)