PoetrySad Poems

The Perfect Position

Bright. Dull.
The colors don’t match,
I’m sent to stand again.

Still. Edgy.
Dad wants that perfect pose,
I’ve stayed here for hours.

Good. Bad
I’m shushed,
He says my talks disturb him.

Alive. Dead.
He keeps taking these pictures,
Hoping I show in one.

Why not share?

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