three parts

three parts

i am that 19th century poet

shuffling along the streets



the passive observer of the common folk

a bystander

a wallflower

hurrying home to write down a note or two

maybe an observation

an contemplation

a revelation

i cannot claim to be the arthur rimbaud

the franz kafka

the virginia woolf

the f. scott fitzgerald

the vladimir nabokov

the fernando pessoa

the sylvia plath

of my generation

gifted with the words of a genius

and the cruel beauty of the world

nor the anne bonny

the jeanne d’arc

the charlotte corday

the hua mulan

the judith

the sophie scholl

the artemisia gentileschi

of my sex

fighting for my beliefs and freedom

breaking the shackles of womanhood

and kill and die for it

i am a disheartened romantic

unable to look further than the horizon of my life

maybe my fate is that of van gogh’s?

forgotten while alive

remembered once dead

or just entirely forgotten

do i mind?

i don’t know

ask me once i’m dead


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