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A Charge

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Below is the poem entitled A Charge which was written by poet Brooke Wolfe. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.

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A Charge

There is a charge for the naming of the stars
A week long trip to mars, and a cup of creamed coffee
Alongside a crumb-filled plate.  
There is a fare, a fare, if you dare,
Take a swim in the Delaware
Take a swim in mid-winter.
There is a fate to this loneliness
If you care to see it.
There is time, time to write poems if you’ll give yourself the time,
Time to aspire to your demise,
I no longer despise thoughts of suicide,
They’ve grown to comfort me
And these words, written in solace
Beneath the black ink of the pen 
And the wet salt of my face,
Beneath many thoughts and tears that I can’t describe.
Don’t touch my shoulder, 
My shoulder doesn’t exist.  
Don’t look at my face, I am not a pretty girl. 
Look with the look of a thief, you try to steal my soul,
Give my soul back to me!  
I no longer exist!  
I exist as the beat of hummingbird’s wings and I don’t know what to say about that
Every place belongs to it a different feeling, a different charge
A large charge, a very large charge for the hearing of my fate,
Most ears are plugged to it.
They are plugged to the sound of my decline, 
They choose to hear whatever their ear finds devine,
And I fall, into the dark, unto the candlelight
Which gives me more life than a mother,
A brother, a sister, a timeless friend that I knew,
Grew with, another time
There is a time to grow a time to fall a time to decline.
It’s thanksgiving day and the afternoon and I don’t want to be hear.
I don’t mind hearing the voices from afar, its just when I see your expression 
matching with your face and I feel the meaninglessness of this place and I hear 
the uselessness
Of these sounds, they penetrate my body with a sting,
A sting so sharp it kills my social skills
And solitude has been knocking a long time now 
So I may as well heed his calls.  

Suicide has also been knocking, and I’d like to heed his calls.  
I hate the holidays, they make me so sad. 
I like to look at guns, though I hate violence.  
I like thinking about the day I will shoot myself, 
Though no one can see through me, 
No one knows I have these thoughts,
Though dangerous, that is the way that I like it.


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