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Free Verse
Gerry Bravi, CA
Awaiting a More
Suitable Author
The story came apart
in my mind.
An unfamiliar voice,
saturated with escaping facts and fictions,
telling a tale of life
fragmented into dissociated bits,
devoid of meaning and morality.
Not constructed to help navigate anxious nights
or give solace to a faltering ego.
A fable, hanging there,
filling a avoid,
solving nothing except a set of physical rules
about the necessary occupation of space.
Is this the mid-draft crisis of my autobiography?
Ashamed of the prologue,
fearful of probable epilogues,
am I insanely awaiting
a more suitable author?
Head Games
when life exists but
in your head
you toss and turn and dream a lot
imagine things that are so not
as life and thought become unwed
whims dance in and whirl about
when in one's head life is set
it helps to cope with things unmet
if one neglects all things without
when life becomes your head
sail every dark and foreign sea
and do whatever pleases ME
`til living comes and shakes the bed
oh me, oh my what have I said
could I have really thought
that life could be so easily bought
and lived within this spooky head
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