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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
The many faces,
Of the ever changing voices.

The tone variation,
Of stories un told.

It's just one person,
Constantly taking turns.

This is a psychological poem.

All factual, with no proof.

Submitted: November 28, 2011

A A A | A A A

Submitted: November 28, 2011



as i sit on yonder hill,

my vision is nothing but still.

That is one hell of a tall mountain,

My geography teacher must not know of it.


It is the start of fall,

and everything falls including my spirit.

It is the road we traveled on,

that has lead to this weary fall.


like a sponge i took it all,

actually it was not my fault.

it was the signs placed in my head,

am not sure of the contractors plan.


"The land is vast,un-exploited but highly productive,

yet the fence wall hides its splendor."

still i carry on with a magnificent demeanor.


the walks are short sometimes inspiring,

yet i seem to be chasing shadows on the pavings.

there is a half lit sun,

but oh how my skin burns.


It peels away as the heavens give rain,

reminds me of the clouds that run down my face.

if my eyes are the windows to my soul,

the reflection must be of shattered shows.


i cant really recall when,

when we started talking turns.

talking turns and missing chances,

Chances that would build us well.


I am in the "butter fly" phase now,

am so tired of being the "crawling caterpillar"

It no longer matters if no turns are taken,

for the "turn creator" has taken center stage.


goodbyes are in due course,

your scripts are detailed: of course.

pick them on your way out,

find your next head to take turns.





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