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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 11, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 11, 2017



last night,

I was feeling

particularly down

(in the dumps

cold, tangled lumps

of thoughts

like stormclouds

in my mind);


I was alone

and surrounded

all at once,

not sure

and not grounded

and I had a hunch


that everyone I know

knew, met, ever will

was convinced I am



and shrill.


it’s not surprising

to me

that revising

the day

is constantly catalyzing

the reaction

that makes me feel this way.


I sought comfort

and found none,

convincing myself

my worries had won,

I reached for the dog

who, through my mental fog

lay awaiting my gentle hand.


at last, a beacon

some hope, a reason

to continue

give into



but solace is a funny thing:

placing your life

into the hands of

something unable

to understand

your mind,

when your last resort

flips a nasty retort

you’re left empty

and hollow

and blind.


the dog, with his

fluffy white fur

like clouds

or pillows

or cotton candy,


bit me suddenly,

on the tip of my finger,


with a growl and a snarl

he rose and he charged

right out the door

leaving me,





on the floor.


tears crowded

my eyes, shrouded

with hurt and disbelief

I ran to the bathroom

grabbed a tissue

searching for some

small relief


I didn’t want

anyone to see,

so I rushed

down the hall,

feeling crushed

and appalled,

I rushed

down the hall

to my room.


there I sat,

holding a tissue

to my finger

stopping the blood

from creating a flood

on the sheets.


I started to cry,

tears stung in my eyes

and it would be a lie

to say I was drying

my eyes in shame.


I allowed the feeling

to wash over me,

consume me,

remove me

from the world


how could I

have been so naïve?

never once

did I stop to retrieve

my fate from the hands

of those making plans

I just let my thoughts

rest on a dog

who unknowingly knocked

my world on its top

and left me to rot

in this prison, all locked

away in a box

waiting for clocks

to come to a stop

and the floor to drop

so I’d fall without halt

endless nothing at all

tears continued to fall

finally free of the walls

that confine my calls

for help.


I stood up

and tossed the paper

in the garbage,

covered it

with another

so my mother

would not know.


what happened to your finger?

she might ask.

oh, a papercut.

nothing serious.


© Copyright 2017 octonopo. All rights reserved.

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