A Particular Vantage Point

There’s a pressure beneath what’s pushing us away,

like it’s interrupting just to say

that the messages we wrote wont be relayed

until we give up our lives

and the names of our friends

and begin to pretend

that all our hopes were all just dreams

and re-sow the seams

into the suits of disguise

and a one-sided compromise

that lingers from the pit of our stomachs

to the spit off our lips.

Now this

is to no one in particular,

but rather to those living cellular lives

who can no longer see our faces

once they’ve tightened their own laces into lessons

taught only at night

where those in charge

finally know that we cant see past the lasting rules

that always wake us up,

where early

never feels too late

because every single day

we watch ourselves ignoring our connections

just to study imperfections

in relation to who we think we are

and like cars crowding roads

we’ve sewn our seeds

like those greedy little strangers

who’ve been known to strangle wallets

for the change falling into pockets

like hope for something more than the objects

still being carried in the hands

we’ve always wanted to hold.


About Sean O'Gorman

Spoken Word poet from Ottawa. View all posts by Sean O'Gorman

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