Zemira

I’ve been told,

That I have a gift for words,

Here lie the depressing thoughts,

I keep hiding in my metaphors

so no one guesses they're mine.

Oh, but they’ll laugh at my blissfulness,

As if it’d affect them more than an ant would a herd.

Oh, to feel felonious for such innocence,

Caused by others—wasting their arrow on a valiant bird.

Dear sun,

Dear winds,

Dear world,

If you hear my plea, I ask of your help.

I’m losing my grip,

I’m falling,

There is so much poetry about oranges

And it makes sense

Because they are perfect for sharing

Because the act of peeling an orange