Make Believe

I was standing on thumbtacks
when she threatened to make me smile
and all the while
all I really wanted to do was sleep,
but the voices keep coming
and there isn’t enough rest
to satisfy the lack of preparation
and I still feel
like I’m settling
for something
I don’t even want
and even while people dance
I find myself sitting down
where the floors vibrate against the souls of my shoes
and the arches of my feet
are acting like bridges
that will only take me so far.
I’ve been letting my days slip away
and my nights grow longer,
I’ve been sending myself mismarked mistakes
hidden in messages,
lost in the bottles
that were only meant to survive oceans
to a land that still sends tears before deeds
where the images of horror
have now been lost
in our own desensitization.
I’ve become my own worst nightmare,
distributing myself out among
those still trying to hang on,
those still swinging from photoshopped ropes.
I wish having wings were possible,
but there’s always only been skin on my back,
just some guy standing long enough
to believe he can fly
where those select few
actually believe in me on a level
that makes me think
I might be able to follow through.

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About Sean O'Gorman

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

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