seethingblue's Diaryland Diary

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they ask me if i write poems about myself and i politely reply no.

kareoke, smokey,

she has been told to stand upright,

to sing quietly in the kitchen, and

at the counter of Kinko's,

nobody cares about the scuff marks on your shoes,

but they will stare all the same, pretending to be counting patterns and cracks in the tile,

and they will watch her again,

carefully,

as if she has been lost for so long

among the throngs of people who have come for graduation,

she does not have the nerve to smile, speak, compose herself upright

and stay sturdy

and the only thing on these days are reruns of Dawson's Creek,

she imagines that she is a lot like Joey and tells herself she could write better, fluid lines

but is secretly jealous of harbors and ice houses,

and would give anything for a voice like windchimes,

and it has nothing to do with anything.

19:41 - 02 May, 2003

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