Post Card Poetry

Was that my voice wearing thin?
I kept mementos of the past in my tattered skin
Marked graves of our mistakes,
Designated signs pointing to where the regret lives

So Who can blame me for the nerves
that come itching their way out
Who can blame me for my eyelids blinking like the revolving doors
of popular malls and grocery stores

I stopped taking care of myself,
legions ( not lesions but legions) started forming on my sweat drenched pores
I’m a pile of fast twitch muscle moving too fast for its own good
I said Im a pile of neuron receptors, no longer accepting messages

So who can blame me for keeping my house looking like sacred
burial ground
Who can blame the air for rejecting the notes of my voice and
refusing to carry the sound

I come from the land of haunted house wives,
where fear is farmed and refined in furnace
Where education is made to mark and brand
Where community leaves you sold out like an empty market stand

So who can blame me for playing recluse
Who can blame me for caving in under the abuse
Can you blame me for every made up excuse
If so then the blame is mine to make and refuse

These questions are no longer accepting replies
This is the part where we depart and where bygones say good-bye
Just before the psychosis leaves me incoherent and all rationality meets demise
Remember that no life lived deserves reprise

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