Stitch This

Once upon a time,
in the world where poems rhyme
and things work out
all the time
just fine,
there was a girl who knew
that things do fall askew
Do not fit.
One bit.

Her friends went to balls
Wore their shoes
Went on dancing
In halls
of mirrors, used
To boost the numbers
To multiply the fun.
To skew the few there.

But our girl didn’t.
she stayed home
Stayed to try to work out what it meant to be alive.
To survive.

Who was right?
Who can tell.

every person has to have
A way of dealing.
Some play on into the night pretending everything is right.
Some do not.
Some take stock.
Try to stop.

All I know is that
(well at least to me)
We are skating on thin ice.
Crackling.

You seem
quite unaware
And watch the glitz and glamour instead.
And decide that nothing will get in the way of having a good time.
The crack.

I can understand that.
and who am I to say that that is shallow.
that it’s done.
perhaps I’m incorrect now.
perhaps I should defect now
And try to change.

But I can’t, I find,
because I don’t think that poems ever rhyme.