Twisted syllables gush out;
Due to bold purple chaos in the back of your brain.
Like the deserted auburn fawn,
All the things you want me to carry, you lack yourself.
Good enough isn’t a goal anymore –
It is merely ten letters strewn across my pale forehead.
A clammy palette –
It knocks my tears into the frayed seams of the cotton marked with a nine.
It clings to your trembling regret.
All the while you question,
“When will I change?”
Artist: Lindsay Bock
School: North Allegheny
Claire Pilarski from:
- posted: November 1, 2007
This is incrediblely written. I love your text format and choice of vocabulary. My favorite line is, " All the things you want me to carry, you lack yourself. " Fabulous job, and keep up the good work!