steps lightly over words
not wanting to
or step on anybody’s toes.
Tentatively she sends out
psychic feelers
trying to sense
out whether or not she is liked,

She says she would regret
if life was over today
And yet – she remains afraid.
Of life.  Of harsh, vicious,
victimising minds,
other people’s thoughts.
Made into monsters by her own.

Forced views upon herself,
all her winters,
until even she believes the lies.

She sees me young;
I see her blind.

June ’05


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This blog is the collection of my poetry and prose, in chronological order from most recent to oldest.

Constructive critique is actively encouraged!

I am usually singing words as well as writing them, and make lots of other art. You can find me & my other art at any of the below links. x

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All content on this blog © Rebecca Tilley, 2003-present

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