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Personal Note:

Poem Title:

Poem

She held onto Saturday, with hands calloused and nails bitten

down

to the quick...her eyes saw sunlight and denied it's presence while she rocked, back and
forth, back and forth, to the ticking of a dishonest...

clock.

He told her, in words that cut the air as they fell from a razor sharp tongue, that she
still played the part of the victim, her little girl costumes uncomfortably small, and she
refused to hang herself up, for she had memorized the part and her voice knew

nothing
else.


Her lips parted, still stained with kisses and dripping with the acidic burn of
yesterday's stale tears, and she whispered the truth about choices as she unknowingly lied
to herself

again.

He handed her the script with a brush to her cheek, and she shook her head as life tumbled
viciously around her face, her peripheral  vision capturing sight of years long past, and
she informed him that she couldn't read it, she told him she was

scared.


He took her hand and taught her how to smile with the slight tickle of fingers that danced
across a lifeline that posessed trails she was ignoring, he showed her how to not walk
backwards and
the appearance of Sunday if she didn't 

trip.


She discovered the moment she was stuck and moved herself beyond the sunset, misty skies
so old that colors had faded and maybe yesterday wasn't as pretty as she thought, maybe 

Sunday

didn't lie, and she came to an understanding as she straightened and tossed her sight to
the windows that glimmered with afternoon light...

that glistened with the reflection of twenty years past the weekend and the eyes of a
woman that had seen the formation of a smile

on
Monday.

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