The Inside Poem

Being Of the Inside has its perks;

between walls we’re unbashed by time and tide

and often being Of the Inside works

to teach us what of us we miss outside. 

With books we elevate above our homes;

through films we scale the mountains to the skies.

We nurse our friendships easy on the phone

and all our houseplants struggle more to die.

We are our biggest critics; we suppose

the strings unplucked, the piano unlearned

means failure on our part, a waste of days

we didn’t need, and through disaster earned.

But what a show of hope in suffering

that in this death, we wanted still to sing.


-Lauren B.

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