She needed too change,
that’s all they ever knew,
even when young,
was too sharp
equipped, with a bold attitude,
for she was known too see people,
for who they were, much too soon,
practically read their movements, even hummed,
they’re mind’s tunes.
They’d never get it
no matter how long they sought her change,
her realness was verbalized bluntly, in exposing,
As her mind drifted back
to where she came from..
Fresh out the pot into the skillet, birthed by a villain,
married to a cynic.
The award would go
too who can out fox,
While she grew claustrophobic,
of mind games,
inside a waterproof box.
Only difference were years and tears or was it tears and years?
Whatever the case,
she saw distinct changes, in many faces.
As she lost them, still giving the marathon’s speech,
yet, quietly re-entering, the races.
the finish lines,
one at the throat,
at the mind.
She found comfort
with no explanation of time.
Tripping backward upon waiting knives,
inside jobs plotted, from behind .
She only pondered a change,
to a different city, but notions filled her of hypocrites viciously, different, but with the same, vindictive sitting.
For now she held the same heart,
same ole story,
barren of glory.
still probing questions,
too when exactly will she, change?
Poetry By Tamara Dorsey-Moore
Thinker on the Loose
Copyright © 2017