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I wish to live in the time of Brontë & Austen
~~~°~~~
I folded my skin tighter than a sailor's knot. Hiding edges where my mother sewn her catholic sermons and my father's penchant for rebellious women in tight corsets. I used to be able to whistle away a tune, whenever a lover walks off my life, now I just stare at the hole they leave at my door.
A human shape outline, like one of those cartoon shticks scene, where the roadrunner runs away from the coyote. I am at the precipice of an age, where a spinster seems more inviting to be one, than a widow. The idea of being so achingly comfortable with being alone, and not be lonely, is a familiar conundrum. But a disconcerting conundrum, to say the least. We were birthed in an era, where the commodity of life is spent highlighting glimpses of our daily lives as the way of existing.
Gone are all the mystery of which we succumb ourselves in order to be explored. No, you are veered onto a corner pushing a heart button, and commenting on a person's idea of an idea.
Farcical pathetic beings, humans are.
We, of little thoughts bundled in hearts that bleed and a mind that wanders. And still, you young soul, ache for something this generation could never bequeath.
*sigh*
I wish I was born too early or too late, than that of which was written in my birth certificate. No, these veins, mind and heart was of a different time. Maybe even a different life.
Maybe that's why, I fold my skin in someone's liking. Cutting my hair, my weight, my personality, my dignity--in half considerably for someone, anyone.
Oh, you poor thing in a dress and nowhere to go.
~~~°~~~
I folded my skin tighter than a sailor's knot. Hiding edges where my mother sewn her catholic sermons and my father's penchant for rebellious women in tight corsets. I used to be able to whistle away a tune, whenever a lover walks off my life, now I just stare at the hole they leave at my door.
A human shape outline, like one of those cartoon shticks scene, where the roadrunner runs away from the coyote. I am at the precipice of an age, where a spinster seems more inviting to be one, than a widow. The idea of being so achingly comfortable with being alone, and not be lonely, is a familiar conundrum. But a disconcerting conundrum, to say the least. We were birthed in an era, where the commodity of life is spent highlighting glimpses of our daily lives as the way of existing.
Gone are all the mystery of which we succumb ourselves in order to be explored. No, you are veered onto a corner pushing a heart button, and commenting on a person's idea of an idea.
Farcical pathetic beings, humans are.
We, of little thoughts bundled in hearts that bleed and a mind that wanders. And still, you young soul, ache for something this generation could never bequeath.
*sigh*
I wish I was born too early or too late, than that of which was written in my birth certificate. No, these veins, mind and heart was of a different time. Maybe even a different life.
Maybe that's why, I fold my skin in someone's liking. Cutting my hair, my weight, my personality, my dignity--in half considerably for someone, anyone.
Oh, you poor thing in a dress and nowhere to go.
~~~°~~~
