I pulled each string from the burlap
Like plucking hairs from my head
Twisting them together in tangled trap.
One hair, two hair, a Seussian thread.
Every string makes it harder to snap.
The straws start long, growing shorter
I am the only one who pulls.
Like casting lots as a hoarder,
Or running alone with the bulls.
Laying brick without the one who lays mortar.
How can one feel so alone in a crowd?
How does the string not notice it’s companions?
Their wedding cheering seemed so loud.
They eagerly overlook the new duo canyon
While I sit at the bottom hidden in burlap shroud.
I want to know what you, the reader, thinks. Consider leaving a comment and I will reply!
Primitive Poetry 