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Linoleum, the Beautiful

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I do not know how to feel;
emotion a meaningless word
whose letters I trace with
the black ink of this ballpoint pen.

I do not know what it means to care.
By example I have learned
when to extend my hand
and simulate tears;
the altruists notions of
compassion
and sympathy
still foreign to me.

I do not know what it means to hurt.
Faces plastered on screens
have taught me that
furrowed brows
and thoughtfully blank stares
into nothingness
will convey to my audience
the brooding pain
which does not exist.

I do not know what it means to be touched.
I will never feel the tenderness
of a lover’s chapped lips,
or the sensuous tingle
of his gently grazing
fingertips.

I only know of the emptiness,
of the void,
which they have told me to fill with
happiness,
prepackaged and pre-sealed,
orderly purchased
from the plastic shelves,
and served on platters
in bite size portions,
with a convenient
toothpick
at its center.

I will never know what it means to live.
I will never know what it means to die.

I will never feel.





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