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