Waiting for Monday
There are words I cannot speak
only think them, sit here and think them
but I hear my mother`s voice again -
"It is never good to think too long."
So I begin to whisper to the walls,
then shout them at the sleeping
earth beneath the floors -
hurl them through the window
at the roses until their blood-red petals fall,
their sharp thorns turn away towards the street
and Monday cannot hurt me anymore.
Page(s) 3
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