She calls me a martyr
of my own ideas.
She says the world
has never been kinder,
and I should stop
living in the fantasies
of my pen.
But she's not fair.
She forgets I made her the world
she used to hide in
long ago
when the war got closer to our house
and could no longer keep
the flowers and the vases
on the table,
when the bombs ruined the grass,
and the sky, and the sun,
and people got angrier than usual
and hungrier,
and our dog died
hit in the head by a strayed bullet
the day after
we burned our children
in the garden
near the house,
because there was no where
place to bury anything else,
and after that
I made her new children
from yellow paper,
and she gave them names
and put them in bottles
that replaced the vases and the flowers
on the table
and we kept them there
even after the war ended
and people started
being buried again.
Junkyard Of Muses
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-poem-that-should-have-been-something-else/
