Most of the time I want to wait until I have perfected my poetry or the title to post it. But often that means that it will never get done. Therefore, I am posting this poem as is. Also, a disclaimer I often feel I have to put is that when a person writes a poem or story or even paints a piece it does not mean that it reflects the place they are in life at this point. It could even be that there is only a shadow of this feeling anywhere in their history. So, enjoy the poem for what it is and not what you think it says about the author. Thank you.
Deflated balloon am I
I am
When life is asunder
And all I can think about is
Why me
And who am I really?
What have I done and what will I ever do?
And my arms hang at my side
And droop as the air
Slowly leaks out of
Its tiny hole.
And there I am red
And on the ground
Broken
And no one to hold me.
And lift me high to the sky.
-Emily Chumchal Andrews ©
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