home
From my perch Here, on the sidewalk, I watch the earth shatter into concrete shards, see faces spilling from their high and mighty horses-- while the horses still stand. And I was already here, on the ground. I know where I belong. Now they have descended to my level. This is where they should be, but no one told them. All of them crushed, like the mirrors they gaze through every morning; every night trying to observe what others will see. Does it tell them anything? Do they see what I've known the whole time? ..that none of us are poets-- we're just the expressive ones who want attention. none of us are happy-- we are all thieves, stealing others' time and space and energy. none of us are beautiful-- we are all ugly and worried. We are not poets-- We are not people-- We are on the ground-- Where we belong.
