Thrown

Indentations look the same,
like previous pages
where we’ve pressed too hard
and made it look
like we were trying to get through.
They’re not alone
when they look this way,
among the masses
that blend together
like they were all holding hands.
I want someone
just to shake me,
someone angry
that’ll do it right
so most of them will stop,
stop until I can re-adjust
and piece them apart,
on this stage for the tremors,
where the dust’s
knocked off my shoulders
and my feet get to move
in silence.

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About Sean O'Gorman

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

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