By Spidey Williams
Each time I write my lifestyles tale, it comes out how i think yet now not continually what I see. whenever i glance within the replicate, it indicates me all i will be able to by no means cover uncooked & uncensored. It provides fact to me. what number people have an alias pen identify, nickname that we're referred to as, except our delivery identify? You don't need to increase your hand or nod your head, yet a minimum of try and smile whether it's difficult. i used to be bred & raised a Christian, yet i believe i'm much less of a guy & extra of a God. each poem I write no less than one individual like, however the ones written in sorrow & blood, humans always remember & unusually love. It's tough for me to bleed externally while I've been bleeding internally given that i used to be born. by way of age 11 I had thirteen knowledge the teeth, & medical professionals name me notable, through 14 i used to be suspended 15 instances in years, records known as me usual! via 17 i used to be great back, from publishing my first poetry ebook, results of heartbroken. must have instructed the witch health practitioner by no means heal me, should've congratulated Cupid, for failing back, must have went to each wishing good, & retrieved each penny for my techniques, rather than publishing my first poetry e-book, entitled, "Poems From The Heart"
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Additional info for Am I Beauti Fully Bro-ken Or Beauti Fully Broke-in?
Michigan State University Press East Lansing, Michigan 48823-5202 Printed and bound in the United States of America. 04 03 02 01 00 1 2 3 4 5 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Fishburn, Katherine, 1944- The dead are so disappointing : poems / by Katherine Fishburn. cm. Title. for the earth had tipped over. you eyed my fatal collection of flies. sucking the life from the rich foreign water. I fished you out: my catch of the day the limbs of my translated daughter festooned with ribbons of minnows and rush.
It's beyond comprehension but got him a headline. <><><><><><><><><><><><> When I die, on the other hand, it will go largely unremarked. No national obituaries for me. I assert this not out of regret or self-pity for I learned young to find comfort in green moments of solitude, thrusting my hands into the companionable dirt of my garden, giving astilbe and hosta the shade that they need, reordering the world in my writing and always, always gazing into the tranquil eyes pooled at my feet, as clear and brown as a pond in spring, which have done better than most in reflecting the world back to me.
Yet the only change I experienced was the unwelcome sensation of shame. Like fear, my shame grew where my breasts did not and emitted a scent all its own, distinctive and fatal, which my classmates, drawn into an ancient alliance, sniffed out with a feral efficiency, gauging with instinctive clarity how best to effect the kill. Needing a weapon to counter what they regarded as my unseemly foreign intelligence, they turned the size of my breasts to their striking advantage, inhaling with drunken delight the overpowering smell of mortification, as I clasped my blameless breasts to myself in an embrace meant not to protect but to smother them.
Am I Beauti Fully Bro-ken Or Beauti Fully Broke-in? by Spidey Williams