a poem by Krzeslawa T. Skrzypczynska, Poland - poetry writer, author, poet

I have to admit,
that, with time,
first I feel uncomfortable
and then,
I notice a sense of degradation and
tiring repeatability, too.

The worst is, when
the memory organized in drawers
according to sentences and feelings,
when is confronted
with someone's untrue,
arouses his anger.

Is that already now?
I'm not sure whether it's not
easier and safer
to make let-in
let-out rather than to
enter-into anything.

I don't have the habit
to withdraw my truths,
those tamed by reality,
for the only to someone's satisfaction,
but, in this case,
I'm making an exception,
incompatible with the earlier plan, named
the postponement plan in life being
when I'll grown-up.

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