being something else

Not entirely left or right, this or that.

Confused somewhat

of damaged flesh,

staying now with the old ones

my heart has been around.

I stand, a stranger at the edge of the door.

Wondering who can understand

My little estate is a comfort

I look at the cold earth;

I look at those who come before me ,

 I am a scion, a chip off the old block

Not one or the other

Contains me.

I am something on the outside of him and her,

But I am them both.

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About m.a. wood

writer, thinker, musician, teacher
This entry was posted in poem. Bookmark the permalink.

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