I kick at your insulation,
at your smile as it fades
into oration.
I would listen to you talk
all night if it would save me
the enunciation
of my own bungling sentiments.

You are not original.
Heel, toe, line
lines flashing,
lines insistent
lines without terminus
or dominion.

Without statement
you are trivial and cold.
A park in the depth of winter.
I adhere to your limits,
so much as they admit me.

You are a terrible mimic.
My rims quiver and itch.
Alone, in a valley
of infinite selves.

My heart flips and fritters.
I am envious of silence,
of open spaces,
of transience
and all who appear
inevitably before me.

If only I could tolerate myself
long enough to become someone else.

I am really struggling to express myself at the moment. My anxiety has been particularly high lately.


15 thoughts on “Wordle #270

  1. Some fine strong word choices here… lines without terminus
    or dominion… your considerable skill is evident.

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