"I am glad it cannot happen twice, the fever of first love. For it is a fever, and a burden, too, whatever the poets may say."
-Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier
If Praise was Love
Coaxing myself into a false sense of reality, I
Realized the unfortunate experience of knowing who I am.
I suppose I should be glad:
Be content with it.
Even pristine prose cannot
Express what I wish could happen
Writing my story over once, twice,
Three times, again and again until the
Words cause a fever:
An anguishing excitement of
Thinking about the first
Time I thought that praise was love.
Was my mother's pride all I was made for?
Did the loving words cause it-
My disillusioned sense that perfection is
always a
Dream. That only a fever
Is worth the tears and
fears of being nothing more than a
dysfunctional burden:
Wondering if my words are worth nothing too.
Though I say "whatever"
I think of more eloquent words, hear the
Turbulent voices in my head, telling me to be like the poets.
I think of nothing more than wilted wildflowers in May,
And telling my mother I have nothing left to say.
-------------------------------------------
(read the last word of each line!!)
-❀Oleander✿
YOU ARE READING
A Manuscript From Midnight
PoetryA collection of passages (most are sad) that I've written late at night when my brain decides to go into crisis mode. Enjoy!
