Stack the boxes on the shelf
and it groans with the weight
but does not struggle;
it has learned after years of use
that struggle only makes the weight
feel like more.
Best lie dormant
and wait to grow accustomed.
Author notes
I can't write anymore.
Comments
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if you personify the shelf (as I imagine) -- throughout all the years the shelf recognizes what goes on it and what doesn't (generally speaking) it's like carrying something, if you see a friend handing you a box full of stuffed animals, you know how to hold yourself to accept that weight, and if it's full of books, you know that you need to brace yourself and hold it a certain way... you groan in acceptance...
Life has it's own way of throwing things at you and it's so much easier to deal with them if you see it coming, unfortunately that's rarely the case, yet we find a way to survive.
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I really like your interpretation of this. Thanks for commenting.
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Ironically, what I've interepreted this poem as, was an arguement I had with someone last night.
It's as if, every stage of life leaves you feeling like that shelf; onstnatly used as something to hold everything else up with. It hurts, and you want to break free, but you know it can't.
And it's taking so long to come to terms with what you've become.
I don't know. I just woke up and my mind is not exactly in the best place currently.
By the way, you can definitely still write.
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I don't know about that, Did you not express a form of acceptance here? Maybe read over and over, it will find the wings of words and fly free.
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Actually, this wasn't about acceptance, but I can see how it could be interpreted that way.
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