mymechanicalbird

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I don’t post a lot. Sorry

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I don't post a lot. Sorry

What’s new with lil’ old me? not that much. Except, schoolwork, a lot of it. Hence the lack of posts. Yea. There aren’t that many coming of late, so here is a poem, to…you know, catch up with the blogging.
This is a free verse poem about me, because I honestly know a bit about that subject, and at the moment, I am feeling rhymeless, (not a word)

I am here.
Hovering somewhere between musty subway stations, and abandoned sandwiches,
Somewhere between Goldie-locks and her bear problems,
And Anne Of Green…whatever.
But really,
I can be like that gum you smear from your shoe.
Or I can be a bowling alley shake,
Who am I?
Who do you think I am?
They see me,
They might take notes.
Redhead.
Willowy.
Glasses,
Knobby-knees.
Tall-ish,
But that’s not me
It’s a shell,
A mask, if you will,
I can be found reading.
Writing? nothing less than my oxygen!
Kicking back, googling, getting utterly captivated by the silliest things sometimes.
Teeth?
Gotta brush ‘em.
Drawing, my breathing out.
Music seems a distant thing,
A faraway clank I can’t wrap icy hands around,
Lest I slip and fall.
Friends, a few, all good.
I’ll never refuse a chance to get dressed up,
Or to play in the snow, mud, or rain,
I love campfires,
I love cinnamon rolls,
I am me,
Brooklin, Stormie,
Hello.


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All Ghosts.


    This morning I realized, that walking through the fog, we are ghosts. Wispy, faceless, apparitions, drifting through the streets. The boy, scampering behind me, his mother following him, the cyclists, peddling up mahogany street, and the early morning dog walkers. All ghosts. I wondered briefly if I was a ghost to them, a ghost with a blue dress, clutching a lunchbox. We all continue through the haunting fog, pursuing our morning ends. I like to think that fog is magic, that when the pea soup splashes our city it freezes time. Reminding us that we pursue tomorrow, run from yesterday, but are stuck, in the everlasting limbo, of today. And that is okay.

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