I am a plastic toy that has long since faded,

worn through years of play.

Whose jaded tips speak of endless spinning

and long to stand still for just a day.


Each mark an improvement, each tumble a chance

to say I am me! to a world that acts surprised.

A desire to be impuslive, to shout and dance

to music that has a peculiar way of swaying telephone

poles like trees and makes daffodils appear upon every sneeze.


What must go up, must come down, yes we know it is known.

But what about that which begs, which says please

when it really wasn't asking permission.

 Rules are the absence of trust in the right, and an assurance

that there will always be wrong. My mission,

as a spinning top, is to drain the ocean and reverse the currents


of compounded interest that have become too heavy to bear.

I have to make it light, so I can cast off all the fog, breathe fresh air

and have permission to be dull, unappealing, most dreadfully

apalling and unburdened by those cumbersome bricks called

doubt and the whispers. Curious whispers they are, to be

cannibalistic thoughts that multiply and lay eggs for the sake

of eating away the joy in every stolen breath we take.

This poem is about: 
My community
Our world


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