Thursday, May 5, 2016

HR Creel- Three Poems


There is no repair
for the broken machine
in me.  
What does a person
do with this truth?
To know that the road
is ending.
To know that each step
creates a print
that may be final.
They pump me with
serums, but I am not so
easily saved.


He hates the
word because it reminds
of hand-holding, voices
in chorus.
The isolationist in him
does not care for 
what some consider
So he tucks himself
far away.

Reluctant Recipients

I carry a gift
they do not want.
I offer it and they scoff.
I write
while they look on
with rolling eyes
face full of disdain.

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