Hands Holding Scissors

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Contributor: Taylor Gibbs

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I dreamt of being happy, and
I guess I sleep-cut,
because I bled it all out
when I wasn't around.
I don’t remember what it was like,
color bursts in the afternoon,
with things to look forward to.
Distance makes the heart grow fonder?
Desperate? Saddened?
No one understood,
the frozen nights alone in the snow bank outside the barren house under listless stars that barely shone.
Everything was so dull, the moon’s silver side, cheap and tarnished like an old nickel in a ditch, left a swamp green ring on the back of my eyes;
black and bruised,
blossoming rose red petals from self prescribed fists holding baseballs.
There is a precipice looming over a bottomless, canyon, abyss, some of us hang from
by only our loosening finger nails.
Only the lucky ones can hold on long enough to keep from falling
pulling themselves to safety.
Some struggle clambering.
Some prefer to drown.
I re-taught myself to smile with an exercise routine
and a pair of scissors.

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My name is Taylor, I live in Mississauga Ontario. I love to read and write poetry and what I call the "Sensitive Macabre." I am set to have a few poems published in the Wilderness House Literary Review, and I am self-published.


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