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Before the Notebook Opened
Before the notebook opened
I was sore and raw and unfiltered
before the world…
highway signs passing by
I was too sluggish to write it all down
so I just kept my good thoughts inside.
Oh, but everything gets to me here in the night.
I’m a twirling flower that the life-giving sun kills.
When the music is playing I fall away, layer by layer.
Oh, my life is like a raw red blister on the lip
sometimes scabbing and bleeding
but never healing.
Surprised rose, I cry for the images that can’t contain me.
All those years I was begging for someone to define me.
One brother was talking on and on
leaving me silent
and the other was a moth-screamer, fluttering around strange lights.
And I was their red blister.
Before the notebook opened, I knew
I was born to hurt for them,
for them and the things I can’t say
because the world and I are too big.
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This is a poem I wrote while very down and depressed. In this I am trying to explain I feel that I'm what some people call "oversensitive," too affected by the world and suspectible to crying. This poem is about having too many things to say in my head and how sometimes I get depressed because I can't say a fraction of what I want to say.