The clock calls: ITS TIME
And I turn into A wrinkly aging pumpkin One that has no more use Except to rot in an attic Of some has-been shop With fashion that has long ago ceased to be fashionable I, too, will parish like an old newspaper And future generations wouldn't even know what I was Or that I was Maybe a descendant long from now Will reach to the attic Dig up the old written words And imagine a person such as myself A great great great grandmother That was hardly great at all Just a human that breathes until it stops to Just a human obsessed with living forever Knowing tragically well that fairytales don't come true Just a human Nothing more With organs and blood and failures And skin that sags and voice that cracks Just a human Mortal Mortal Mortal Fucking mortal. ***
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AuthorIn April 2020, while experiencing her first ever global pandemic, Tamar Pelzig pledged to write something every day, even if it's only a word, so she welcomed to the world a daily blog to keep her creative writing wheels rolling. Categories
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Header Art: Daniel Landerman |