Disrepair (version one)
Nothing in this house gets cured,
except paint,
and I’m so afraid it’s absurd,
my mental functions ain’t.
Except paint,
the only reprieve’s in lines of poetry.
My mental functions ain’t
what they used to be.
The only reprieve’s in lines of poetry.
I’m always revising
what they used to be,
open wounds I’m excising.
I’m always revising,
and I’m so afraid it’s absurd,
open wounds I’m excising,
nothing in this house gets cured.
2 thoughts on "Disrepair (version one)"
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Oh cool! What form is this? Did you make it up or is it a set pattern? Very clever. And the content is very relatable… I’m so sick of revising my own open wounds… knowing full well that’s not even possible. Ugh!
Thank you! The form is pantoum and they are fun to write.