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Facing The Hours

Facing the hours

I'm coming apart at the seams
And everything died, it seems
At the hearts of men
By the hearts of men
Men. Men. Men.
So many fucking men.
It was them.
Those men,
That did me in.
All those men, who don't think about me but him.
All those men.
So I gave myself up to you, brave men.
Because to not
Is surely a sin
And I die, I die, for you all in vain
Oh, all of these men,
All of these men
All of these cave-fucking-men.
Who cannot stand an idea
That transcends the idea
That concrete, that consecrated idea
That happy is not found
Better yet, drowned, drowned.
In that pool of idea
That cesspool that is man;
And MAN, if I can
It'll be the last thing I do
To prove, not to you
But to prove
What you are
What you do
What you've done
When no one else is in the room
The hair-tearing
I often wonder,
Do you know?
Do you care?
What you took.
What you took.
Written in my book
Composed of screams
From my horrible dreams
And darling, yes I dream and I scream
And I dream of all those screams
That nobody
Can seem to hear.
Like tiny pieces stolen
Taken from me
Nobody hears
Nobody cares
And how DARE
you expect that they all would care?
Little pieces torn
Little pieces of flesh
Makes you so selfish
It's always us, isn't it?
It's always our fault.
Because how can these men
If it isn't all our fault?
This type of robbery transcends the flesh
It's a soul type of stealing
One more, no less
And oh, oh you,
Just move on with your day
Like it's just one more, one more day
Of enduring these hours
These hours,
and hours and hours
After the fact.
You don't remember that time; and hours and hours still go on.
Hours when I wonder
What have I done so wrong?
To deserve this
To have earned this
This pain
This bone-chilling pain
This blood-curdling pain
This spine-tingling shame.
This goose-bump-raising substance?

But now I wish I could go back
So far back
That all I see is what I know I don't lack
That as far as I can see
Is black
Happy emptiness in a sea of gorgeous lack.
And I cry to God

About this poem

The female plight.

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Written on January 22, 2022

Submitted by Sebinajoply on March 30, 2022

2:20 min read

Mary Jane Trujillo

I'm a traveler, a transient, a bona-fide felon, a musician, an artist, a writer, a scholar, and a person who has lost all but my life. more…

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"Facing The Hours" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2022. Web. 29 Jun 2022. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/123408/facing-the-hours>.

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