I found this poem I had written nearly two years ago hidden in documents in my computer. I had forgotten I had written it and I think that distance has led me to really like it.
Last Sunday
Some people act as though they
don’t have peripheral vision,
so I am left with all the blame sight brings.
I am the creator of simulations,
of love and of care, I am behind the curtain,
it glitches every third second.
I’ll call you a muse to get you to stay,
you’ll look on my works and weep,
but this is ever only about myself.
Last Sunday I ran away, to dry earth that
whispered I was the long awaited rain,
it echoes me and I feel used.
Every stroke or shutter is lost here,
the scarcity is a bore and the point is
that no one matters here.
The clerks, the torturers and the belts
let me escape too easily, my true prison
is thinking I am more needed
than I am.
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