Photo by Kinga Cichewicz on Unsplash

Where can I run from the waves of sound,
That echoed his words of disparagement?
From the purple blood my heart would pound,
From my own flesh, dispensable, vacant.
I’m not trying hard enough, he said,
To turn my thoughts into synergy,
He let go of my rope, I dread
Said that I just don’t have it in me.

A puny commit, in his orbit, rotates
I’ll never catch up to my mother-star’s speed
Riding the bend his gravity creates,
Heart and mind depend on him to feed

Where can I run from the prints of his feet
That undressed me of character and intellect
Imprinted my worthlessness in wet concrete
A forever stagnant fetus, I am incomplete.

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