Poetry from Brianna Dawn.

i know it well and you do not

my heart, i know it well.
i listen carefully, over and over
to all of the stories
it loves to tell

but to another’s eyes,
there is nothing at all, so they call upon
their own fairytales to write upon
their imaginary pages of some fictionalized,
incomplete book

our souls fall sad when
others try to tell us all about ourselves
with hardly a look in our direction,
focused on the workings of their own
inner eyes, spinning webs of their own, of

some “truth” about some “matter” that
is not ours at all but completely theirs alone,

an ugly lie, favorable to their eyes
but miserable to our own

only what we know
of our truth is what truly matters
and yet we choose to pick at bones
of someone else’s skeleton of the workings
of our stories, or choose to let stones
crush us, building up someone else’s home
to dwell inside of instead of living in
one of our own

we stand on the crown of our own mountain
and yet, we choose to put our worth
into the grains of sand others get
stuck in their eyes

our worth then shrinks, because our
worth is then contained within the worth
of someone else’s thoughts, which couldn’t be
bought with more than a penny and yet
we pay more than that until we are caught

fooling ourselves, believing
their lies rise from some sort of wisdom,

but they are only grains, fragments
of some other story – not ours

don’t let them write you misery
from their ugly ivory towers


© Tiny Fawns, 2018

 

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