In the eye of the storm
shall rest our eternal redemption.

I stand by the bathroom window,
let the sun shine generously on my face,
and write with such exuberance—
I wonder how could I not call such a task
my way of life?

Instead I'm a daughter, and not a good daughter
but a restless, sick, defiant one—
Counting lovers on her fingers and toes
darting off into the night at the first sign
of possible escape.

So nervous to a stranger's eye. Fidgety,
indecisive. Tensed nerves. I do not know
why—perhaps it's because what's to come
cannot be as good or wonderful
as what's been lived.

s./j. goldner

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/brooding-hen-and-her-alibi-the/