We bind ourselves
to hopeless talents,
like birds that fall to die.
We then lift ourselves
into higher numbers
that cures us of being shy.

And like something new
we still make do
until that point when it all shifts.
When we lose the thought
of the things we’ve got
and the timing of giving gifts.

In so many ways
the bargains play,
like auctions of our hours.
Where the bidding wars
makes us sore
and leaves us feeling sour.

We’ve broken away
into busy days
for something that will last.
Changing realities
and different personalities,
like simple, little masks.

Ones that change,
but never learn,
or even ask a question.
Where blisters age
and everything turns
away from their directions.


About Sean O'Gorman

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

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