Ostrich

Ostrich

Here is this day, just like all the others really,
getting up, going about, winding down,
and me, with my head in the ground.

And me, with my head in the ground,
avoiding the possibility of recognizing the truth,
ignoring the sayer, the sayer of sooth.

Ignoring the sayer, the sayer of sooth,
desperately explaining the grievous, grumbling things,
that having no sense or senses brings.

That having no sense or senses brings,
like some root vegetable plucked free from the dirt,
my head, my head it can only hurt.

My head, my head it can only hurt
by not clearing my mouth, my nose, my ears, my eyes,
but stilted, I stand, running away from those binding ties.

But stilted, I stand, running away from those binding ties,
raising my feathered wings, unable to fly,
I lower my head in the ground to cry.

ampoule, July Eleventh, TwoThousandTwelve

Good one Ampoule. I like the structure of this poem as if the repetitive lines are symbolic of the daily grind about making the same decision over and over again to shirk off responsibility.

Nice. Very nice, actually. Thanks for the read :)

Live and be well - H

I love it and the way it's written.

Thank you for reading and for your comments. It's nice to be back. I've enjoyed your poems as well.

wow, ampoule, this is very moving, well written, honest, authentic... love it greatly!!!

That means a lot coming from you Bar. Thank you.