squeezed in a vice by snarkiness and drama
but not crushed? We're talking pancake here.
Flat as a freaking pancake crushed.
Ice for a nice pink drink
with a tiny umbrella crushed,
and that drink sounds pretty damn good about now, Lord.
Perplexed by the energy and activity required for Making Things Happen,
protecting, caring for, handling responsibilities
didn't ask for, just dumped in my lap,
still managing to get cast as the Evil Queen.
Not in despair? Maybe Paul wasn't. He was stoned, left
for dead, sure. I'd be temmpted to trade places.
Was his heart ripped out by
disappointment? He was beat up by enemies,
not those he cared for, laid down his life for.
So yeah, right this minute, look at me, the face
of despair. Take a long hard look, because it's not going to last.
Persecuted by people who should by-God know better,
and maybe they'd all like to abandon me,
maybe they already have,
maybe it's time to abandon them to their own way,
but I'm not abandoned by everyone. Not by a long shot.
Strike me down with criticism, resentment, gossip,
Stab me in the back with your words, in the heart
with your attitude, you won't ever destroy me.
See, I'm loved. Maybe not by you, or
some of the people I love so much it hurts, or everyone
I'd like to be loved by, but loved.
Unfreakingconditionally.
Loved by one who knows me
better than anyone else and still sees a treasure there,
hidden inside a fragile statue of clay so easily broken
one more harsh breath might do me in. That's okay.
There's fragrance inside. You just can't smell it,
because you like to keep your distance.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012
Rough day. A poem of catharsis and anger and hope. I have a feeling others will relate.
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