I am exhausted. Tired of the crowd’s prying eyes when all
I’m doing is wallowing and huddling.
I want nothing more than
this sharp oversensitiveness of my skin
to stop this crawling feeling,
because I can feel the touches,
the curious fingertips dragging,
on the skin of a woman made of parchment
who bears her interior just enough,
just enough to cause criticism.
Though, that wasn’t her,
and I watch my parchment weep from my arms,
catching the sheets, I frantically scrawl and scrawl
before I forget the present thought processes,
I wish to save them all.
They are precious to me,
if inapplicable to others,
I am still allowed to self-indulge.
Written words can silence me with their beautiful calligraphy
and I learn from sources beyond the nearby gumtree or nearest paperbacks,
I seek to learn from the greatest, who titillate my senses,
now raised goosebumps upon my sensitive paper-thin skin,
it no longer crawls with distastefulness but instead
it is inspired.
I read and read,
absorbing skillful words, and wanting nothing more than appreciation and
education from those far finer in skill than I,
poised with vocabularies resplendent and fuller than a flushed Renaissance bosom,
I shudder with appreciation
I love this feeling
it is one of great calling.
And inspired once more,
my exhaustion all but forgotten,
I bind myself with tight parchment bandages
and set my pen into sight.
I am ready,
I will recommence my style,
flowered by the blossoming of others' inspiration,
all it takes it that certain escape,
a wondrous trip out into the open.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.
Image by Mystic Art Design from Pixabay
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