Miscellaneous Mind.

Over and over and over.

No matter which words I put down;

It’s always the same poem.

The same pain;

The same ruin;

The same broken dreams;

The same crushed egg shells;

The same shards of glass;

The same fiery coals;

The same bleeding heart bursting through my throat;

The same poem.

To all the versions of myself that had to die..

To all the versions of myself I had to bury…

To all the lives I have mourned..

For I wasn’t really in a coffin, but a seed coat…

To all the versions that will continue to shed,

To be buried, to die to nourish and be further planted..

So I may continue to bloom and grow into the future me.

Like a possession?

Yes. One you show off, and one you hide so as not to risk anyone else wanting it.