Writing Critiques

Writing Critiques

it sounds like

nothing but the

cries

of a selfish

little girl.

who does nothing

but victimize

herself

to get pity

on her side.

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My name is

My name is

My name is

And I don’t understand why

we’re hugging

Why

we’re in a circle.

Why

we’re here.

 

My name is

And I don’t know you.

Or you.

My name is

And I don’t understand why they didn’t show up again.

My name is

And I’m bored.

Tired.

Hungry.

Walking in with McDonalds in my hand.

My name is…

And we’re late again.

 

I can’t talk to my friends.

I can’t play in the rooms here.

My name is

And I know the serenity prayer.

My name is

And I

grew up

here…

 

My name is

As I stick my right foot in

Arms wrapped, holding other people tight.

My name is

And this is how I spend my Friday night.

 

My name is

And I’m fourteen.

Watching a whole room of two hundred people get clean.

 

My name is

And I have a little sister

By the age of 12.

Her name is

And we stare from the table at the “12 Step” books on the shelf.

 

Our names are

And we grew up in the collective of NA.

Narcotics Anonymous

In rooms that would

Remember our names.