Worded worrier,
Wounded warrior,
Wearisome womanhood.
Hope’s in the noose,
hanging from the
metaphorical Alliteration Tree.
Patience produces prosperity?
Gentleness guides graciousness?
Love lengthens life?
All I hear are realism sighs
asking surreal why’s.
Trying to normalize after
tsunamis of trauma…
like asking “When will my
posthumous reputation begin?
After I actually have one to leave behind?”

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