Manifesto of the robbery

Perhaps the aching joints are the manifesto of suppressed emotions…

For all the times I’ve exploded in my loneliness…

For the times I wrapped myself around a thorn bush-lava disguised as a huMan…

For the broken chair I had to fix

People of age should know better than take a seat on a child’s chair…

Or take a hammer to put down our walls…

Perhaps my aching joints are the manifesto of the robbery…

WE are the ones left alone in our empty museums… Cracks on our walls thorns stuck in our heads telling us what we are and what we are not…
We are the ones to pick ourselves up
Shhh silence the Self doubt
Dust off
And limp on with our lives
we are Ok even when we don’t feel that way…

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