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Sometimes, I catch myself singing.
I'd forgotten that I had a voice.
Too many years of being dutiful,
Have been turpentine in my throat.
Sometimes, I find myself writing.
Poems run for their lives.
Too many years of being dutiful,
Have been rubber bands on my fingers.
Sometimes, I feel myself loving.
And the thrill of it makes me blush.
Too many years of being dutiful,
Have been fingernails on my chalk heart.
Sometimes, I let myself go on dreaming.
The sky breaks, for the sun screams out.
Too many years of being dutiful,
Have been gags in the mouth of my mind.

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smart, eloquent, friendly: the voice of your next project.
http://www.wendyedwards.com



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The following comments are for "Contempt"
by wendythemommy

contempt /contemplate
made me think, did this... because I wondered where this "contempt" resided and for whom it was designated. certainly singing, writing, loving, dreaming are not the practices of a contemptuous heart… they are the practices of a heart that has relegated contempt to the past tense and moved on. as such this was a beautiful testament to self-awareness and self awakening…

maybe the “contempt” belongs to the heart and to the spirit that allowed itself to become "dutiful"? the examples of the corrosive/ stifling effects of this “being dutiful” are well chosen I think... but I'm most glad the poems I overcomes this… affirmative, I think.

( Posted by: AuldMiseryGuts [Member] On: September 11, 2007 )

contempt/contemplative
you're correct in your latter assumption that the contempt belongs to teh spirit that allowed itself to become dutiful.. and i thank you! it isn't exactly soothing to write the ugly side of things, but i'm unable to keep from admitting they exist.

( Posted by: wendythemommy [Member] On: September 12, 2007 )





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