Poem #370

I tilt my head back, ordering my tears
to go right back to their source.
If I am not ready to move with those tears
and start fixing what is broken
I do not have the right to shed them.

So I tilt my head back, a lake is in my eyes,
the ceiling looks blurry and I am familiar
with how white it is from the hours of staring at it.
A perfect contrast to the observer,
the only thing we have in common is the lack of color.

I tilt my head back and hit it against the wall.
I am still not letting the lake become a river.
Maybe the patch of blood will bring some color,
letting something out will make me lighter
because I am dragging a lifetime of failure and doubt
into each morning my body feels too worn out to get up.

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