Ode to a Frog

Push it, as if giving birth. I’ll never get it out.
There is a thing within me, I do not like him.
He came to reside inside five years ago now.
I do not remember the day; it was too dark.
His dank breath touches me in the morning.
The smell of corrosion and long dead meat.
There is never a time when he’s not around.
The mirror shows a scowl behind my edges.
I can tell you about what he whispers to me.
He says down, decline to life lower than life.

There is still a place he cannot stay though.
He tries but I oust him out with slick ease.
The lowest place in me is the highest mind.
I ever moved away from the wasted times.
I run towards the light. the same as we do.
The shadows only turn for the longest night.
These words are a furrow on my dry brow.
He can not chase and catch when I am still.
He tries. He pushes. He nags and rages on.
But I just watch up and put my roots down.

I know it is stupid to tell you of these things.
You can not see within me. Only my words.
But still, there is comfort in believing in you.
No broken bottles from the wall I sit astride.
Only things to come. Only not yet happened.
I sit in painted corners and wait for a breeze.
Sitting. Waiting. Not telling. Hiding a dream.
Sorry not to trust. Not to try. Not to blossom.
I wanted to. I wanted to be what you wanted.
Wanted to be the frog. Yet ever the tadpole.

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