Poetry for Survivors

Steady Hands

They laughed at my feeble attempts to express myself,

then wondered why I spent so much time

alone in my room…

A closed door, blank paper.

A typewriter’s busy, furious clicking:

(Let me write, let me write,

let me fill up the blank skied night

with words.)

“Isn’t she ever coming out of there?

It’s not normal spending so many hours

alone in that room.”

Sweet oblivion reaches out its kind fingers

and buttons me up,

envelops me in the warmth of my little corner.

Words splash and spill

into midnight hours;

they shake their heads in puzzlement—

I am not one of them—

and I have no explanation to offer.

I slowly kneel down

and mop up the spillage of words

with steady hands.


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A day in the life of a multiple…

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