I have no wisdom tooth, but

you know, we’re all so flawed, we’re almost perfect
so full of holes, we’re almost full.

so fake, that we’re ourselves until the last drop
of make-believing.

Over the top,
or in the shade,
playing it cool,
king of charade.

life’s too bitter, so I make a face,
too short to turn down an embrace.

we’re all so full of it, we’re almost empty.
heavy with thoughts, we’re almost light

as feathers.


About Mara Ambrosie

"I contain multitudes" W. Whitman. *poză de www.cataling.blogspot.com
This entry was posted in English, poems. Bookmark the permalink.

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