Most days I am not pretty-
Too many things gone wrong to be pretty-
Anything but pretty-
I’m not a flower in your vase-
I’m the one whose stem has snapped-
I’m not blooming in the fields-
I’m wrapped in paper at the grocery store.
Most days I am not happy-
Too many sad things have happened to
be happy-
Anything but happy-
I’m not the sunshine on your windowsill-
I’m the cloud that moves fast across the sky-
I’m not rising in the East-
I’m the rainy days you greet with a sigh- if I’d only been sunny.
Most days I am not here.
Too many memories now to be here-
Anywhere but here-
I’m not the long hollow howl from your clock at noon-
I’m the printed photo pasted in a shelved album from the ‘90’s-
I’m not sitting on the couch waiting for you come home anymore.
I’m alone –
A long time ago now.
By myself-
Lots of yesterdays now.
Unrecognizable.
Inaudible.
On
Most days.
Photo Credit: Helga Weber Flickr via Compfight cc
