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Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Poem: Hum

Hum

It tells me I will have to die, for just a minute,
To continue on living the way I do.
The way I want to.
It knows I keep it secret,
And it teases me with the laughter of children
Running circles around their mothers.
Those perfect happy families.

This decision is harder than it seems,
And it bothers us both more than we can say
To one another out in the open, it hides in our eyes.
But when we kiss, when you hold my hand
And tell me you love me, tell me it will be all right,
We both feel the presence of our creation.
The hum of it is deafening,
Speaking silently from within me.
My unknown secret, unthinking, a life in my hands.

Leaning against the cold tiles in the bathroom
Lights off, in the dead of night,
Head spinning in the silence
I move my hands from my head to my belly
And try to ease my hectic mind.
This is my continuing internal battle.
I can’t seem to find the middle ground
Between relief and regret.
Convinced I can hear a heartbeat
That does not yet exist.

Hoping desperately that some calm voice
Will save me from these screaming fears,
From the deep silence of the night.
A hand to wipe my tears from my face and
Give me strength to make me follow through with my choice.
Even if it’s only in the temporary safety of that moment,
Bring me peace.

I’m hoping I don’t break, don’t falter,
Hoping I don’t keep my eyes open when I try to sleep,
To shut the hum out when I feel guilty,
To keep from dreaming once it’s over,
To not wake screaming in the night.

© Melo ‘05

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I write reviews, I write stories, I write about my daily occurences, I complain about everything. I have a few blogs throughout the world, but this one is my favorite, mostly because it's mine.

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Words Of Wisdom

Both reading and writing are acts of supreme faith. They are both, in essence, a call to grace, a belief in the miraculous - that we might come to see through stories what we had not previously seen, that we might come to understand what had, before that moment, remained uncertain, undefined. The mask of fiction, of writing and reading stories, does not, in the end, disguise our faces but instead reveals who we really are. In the, stories acknowledge life's difficulty and sadness but insist that we go on anyway, that we always hold to our faith, to our belief in grace.

- John Gregory Brown

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