Too Small for the Day

I’ve always felt like I was made of water,

Poured into a life that needed solid stone.

Trying to be everything they ever sought here,

Ending up a fraction, utterly alone.


My effort feels like running on a carpet;

Lots of movement, going nowhere fast.

I hear the echo of a forgotten target,

A feeling I was never meant to last.

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The Ghost of Sixteen

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The Language of the Bloom