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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.

smart, eloquent, friendly: the voice of your next project.

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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 )

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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