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My Pile of Dust







My Pile Of Dust





Debris is strewn throughout my world,



Those parts cast from my presence.



A broken vow he made to me,



"Friends" who robbed, in essence,



Dreams that were not truly MINE,



Relationships now broken,



Chips of lies and doubts and cries,



A gift (a guilty token),



Somewhere amid that rubble there



You'll find retaliation.



I found out long ago, in spades,



It's not much consolation,



A bit of envy might still show



As broom sweeps up the mess.



A smudge of doubt, the urge to pout



Are all, not MORE, but LESS.



I cast them in the heap of trash



Cleaned from midst my dwelling,



Those things I keep? Yea, they are sweet!



What are they?  I'm not telling.














Author's Notes/Comments: 

I wrote this after reading a poem about how a sculptor chips away the debris to leave the art.  I have striven to chip away the mess I made myself as well as the trash life heaped upon me to make a work of art of what God gave me.  Most times I feel more failure than victor, but I still keep on trying.  You know.

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last updated 11 October 2010 - 11:39pm
©20 April 2002 - 1:01am — onelilartist
22 April 2002 - 3:38pm — michael
michael's picture

It is the dust that was that makes the art that is. Nice poem.

20 April 2002 - 8:00pm — salphire5
salphire5's picture

This is a great poem Jessica. I love the rhythm of it.
What a wonderful story sculpted from the nasty facts! This sounds so familiar.
You have a manner of expressing yourself that is uniquely artistic and beautiful. I like your style a lot, and always feel fulfilled when I have visited your site.
Well done.
F. Salphire