Up is down
when you're hanging
your head
off the edge
of the beige couch.
Lights become blurred
orbs,
shadows melt into their
objects
passersby go unnoticed,
even in a house of
eleven.
Sometimes they join
you,
begin to understand the
way your mind
wanders,
feel the tingly
sensation
of blood rushing to
already-swimming eyes.
Thoughts become webbed
and plunging
- abstract -
of the siblings
upside-down
hanging their tiny
heads
off the edge
of the beige couch.
of the beige couch.
I questioned whether or not this poem would ring with memory for anyone but myself. I found it odd that, when looking back on my childhood and trying to find fond memories, I remembered many that were upsidedown. The "beige couch" was actually a loveseat, but when you're eight, you don't understand the difference; that's why two of my sisters and I have a picture of us and my dad all piled on this couch, about to take a nap. I have no idea where this loveseat went, but I have many fond memories asscociated with hanging upsidedown off of it, just watching the world go by.
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