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September 30, 2004 - A poem about Friendship

Strange Parcel.

I’m still
on broken shells
waiting for a signal
to open up the box.
Hoping, for something
that says; “It is OK -
now I understand.
it was vain to think
the world is just for me”
But all I hear is tiny
cocoon wails from a spoilt
toyless child within
the soggy wool old news.
Scrunched, but wanting,
I’m trying hard - not to tear
the bubble wrap of scratch inside.
Pulling fist and knot of everything,
to nail some loose tape slack.
But what I get is blunted,
tweezered looks - that never help.
Then I realise. Indignant,
scornful tools are not


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