Today I feel like a Man.
My drowsiness marionettes
my fingers to rustle imaginary stubble
as weariness collects under my eyes,
matching the half-melted snow
that gathers where the street slumps.
I weave around
with my worn leather boots,
brown with fibers amiss,
and my posture resembling that of a
writer or lawyer or professor or psychologist
or editor or traveler,
or anyone who is bent from the efforts
of collecting voices around them and passing
them off as his own, (though proud that he
was the one to notice them and put them together in the first place)
walking back toward his abode where some lady
may or may not be waiting.
I woke up and did not feel pretty,
nor did I have the desire to be.
My cheeks weren't pink-
my face was red with agitation
that is not as flattering as the
blush of someone who has been complemented.
Along the lane I do not excuse myself
as my presence confronts me with another.
He is like a vehicle at a roundabout,
his exhaust an apology to the tainted
statue in the center of which he swerves around;
I thank him silently for not looking
too closely to see the expression on my carved face
or read the plaque of description.
Paris Mather is a 21 year old writer from Cleveland, Ohio. For her, writing is a necessity rather than a luxury. As a student at Case Western Reserve University, she spends her time writing, reading, playing piano, cooking, and living through emotions that usually turn into poetry.