Wednesday, June 11, 2014

Slurs

Broken. Broken.
A little more broken.
A little less shaken.
A lot more taken.
The brain squeamishly gives into these thoughts.
Fighting through the wind, praying for a drought.
Times, some are curving your way.
Some other, they are looking away.
The waiting room is full of webbed feet,
I stopped myself from staying,
and walked out the wrong way.

Piecing. Piecing.
A drop at a time.
A little less broken.
Some more shaken.
A lot less giving.


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