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written by: Daisy King
Inside my head- the broken faucets, the drawings
penned by clumsy hands, a poem I might write,
admission of failure, things never stopping,
a series or sequence, a set of rules, it was too late.
Sorry I wasn't at your party. History and distance
between experience and uncertain other parts,
dimmed by nights that are constantly refolding
and the fear that nothing survives. Inevitable,
like shyness or shame or falling asleep.
This has nothing to do with happiness.
There will always be another set of rules.
History can rewrite itself as often as it repeats
and the old dull pain, stitched to our boots,
just as it had to come from somewhere, like
old tree roots, has to lead to an end elsewhere.
When I ran out of lullabies I learnt the story
of what the night is thinking, learnt the sorry
that is empty- we're doing this to ourselves.
Forgiveness. Harp strings. Broken faucets.
Birds fluttering. Clumsy poems. Almost on time.
A familiar laugh- I also found inside my head.
I always knew it wasn't all fear and failure
and wanting and worrying, but I guess I forgot.
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