Wednesday, September 23, 2009

On Discussing Sigmund Freud in Seventh Grade English Class.

I am ignored. I am moved.
People ignore me like broken rivers,
Dreams that are shattered and torn,
Dreams that are shattered and torn.
I cannot speak to you right now.

You call to me from the mist of the deep,
The deep dark that deserts me
In the midst of chaos.
I am moved.
I walk across empty streets all in the name of
All in the name of an ancient language
That was spoken by the gods.

I am a language.
My mood is a happy one,
I am filled to the brim with pickle brine.
I wrote a note to myself in seventh grade,
When the boy, Matt, would not appreciate
The teacher and spoke out of turn.

Wheels turn. Everything turns.
I am ignored. I am moved.
Nothing moves.

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