Am I too hard
Or am I right?
Am I just a retard?
Never shall I evermore endeavor
to being clever,
Not near close at being an avant-garde poet,
Caught off-guard with my at most mediocre dribble
Form of art and to which to you I do impart.
Writing with this nonexistent imaginary organ,
More like an artificial heart.
Let's go further and say I have no brain
And therefore I cannot be remotely smart.
Perhaps I'll change my last name?
Does Kohut have a ring to it?
How does it sound?
Perhaps then I shall bound
To the speed of sound
Onwards and upwards,
Sky-high;
Above the ground.
Will I live in relative anonymity?
Wouldn't life be oh so pretty?
Move into the country with the animals
Right away from the dwellings of the city.
Perhaps then I'd accept my problems with composure and with equanimity.
Oh but Lena!
You must learn!
Oh how I yearn to truly understand the importance of asserting and taking pride in oneself.
Am I just inconveniencing myself by continuing to loathe and insult myself?
When will it ever be enough?
Saying that I like myself is really an awkward bluff.
Should I change to a rough and tough exterior?
How can I when inside I feel so inferior.
I overflow and am overfilled with hatred and despair..
How can I expect anyone to love me when for myself
I really do not care.
While I ponder this over and over others wonder today what shall I wear.
Really? Oh really?
Is this really fair?
I haven't a clue, I do not quite know what to do and I continue to wonder;
Into nothingness I stare
Gazing
Above
And beyond.
Daily scrounging
To find peace that of a turtle dove
But for now
I am
Lounging; sunlight beating down its' glare,
Pare shavings of skin; stripping me bare
Sitting, unwittingly in a chair, old and in a state of disrepair.
Written by Helen Pavlotski COPYRIGHT 2012
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