Timberwolf Times

My Random Poetry Pt. 3

Nora Rudmann

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Uniform

Isn’t It Simple

Being

In Uniform

Line By Line

Marching

 

Why Be Different When

You Can Be

In Uniform

In One

In The Same

A Segment

Of Who You Really Are

 

Isn’t It Easy

To Hide

In Uniform

To Strip Yourself

Of Everything You Are

Slowly Dying Inside

But You Can’t Show It

Because This IS Normal

And If You Don’t Like It

Then You Must Not Be

Imagine

Imagine coming

to the place that you haven’t been

in years. The people welcome you back with open arms, but something

isn’t right about their

faces.

 

Imagine coming

to the place that used to be

full of happiness but is now as barren as a ghost town,

minus the usual dusty

tumbleweeds.

 

Imagine walking

into the church and attending mass but

everyone seems to be trying to distract you from something over there.

and you can’t help

exploring.

 

Imagine entering

the old graveyard and walking through the

gloomy rows of graves but something there seems to haunt your mind.

I hear her voice

somewhere…

 

Imagine running

to her family plot and seeing a

headstone that just happens to read her last name, and desperately skimming

the list before seeing

it.

 

Imagine reaching

it, desperate, crying, no, that’s not it,

that can’t be it, it’s my fault. And imagine shouting from the

ground, Why did I

leave?

 

Imagine falling

to the ground. Crying, Why’d she leave?

desperately wanting her back, but somehow, you know that she’s gone. And

she is never coming

back.

 

Mirror

Mirror, mirror on the wall,

who’s that person down the hall?

Treading softly, eyes ablaze,

staring at the sullen wall.

 

Mirror, mirror in my hand,

who’s that person who doth stand

weeping as they mark the wall

with a doleful person’s brand?

 

Glass Bubbles

The fire roars

And the molten glass bubbles

But the gaffer is not shaken

 

He dips his

Looooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong

Pipe into the

Pot of gooey liquid

And when he pulls it out, a little glob is stuck on the end

 

He blows into his pipe

The little glob of melted wonder enlarging until a big bubble is present

Almost floating

Almost loose

Almost gone

 

Yet it cools rapidly as the gaffer

Smooths out the curves and

Rounds out the edges

 

Soon more glass bubbles appear

Looking like they’ll fly away too

But they don’t

 

Because no matter how much

Glass bubbles

Want to leap into the air

They’ll always solidify too quickly to

Fly

 

synesthesia

they

mumble

and she hears

soft

 

she strokes

a dog’s fur

and she feels

golden

 

she spies

a lake

and she sees

sweet

 

she eats

ice cream

and she tastes

perfume

 

she sniffs

a flower

and she smells

piano

 

and the cycle continues

until she’s run out of

noises to feel

textures to see

colors to taste

foods to smell

aromas to hear

 

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