Thursday, 25 September 2014

The Things I Thought Were Me

I come to a stop
At first, it's hard to breathe
As wants, needs, fears, ifs and buts
(The things I thought were me)
Implore me to go on
Much like a clamouring, mewling litter

From this silent dwelling-place
I hear their sweet cries
And gently greet them one by one

Shrill though they can be
They never actually wanted to run the show

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