Thursday, August 23, 2012

Dispatch Lady, Not a God

I called the dispatcher. 
She hung up on me. 
She knew I didn’t want to be saved. 
Figured I was lost, just looking for a voice. 
I called a couple more times she told me not to each time. 
I begged her to stay on the line, she said she had to go. 
I cut myself open wide, with a black ink pen. 
Told her I needed help, and I begun to cry. 
She said I would be just fine, and that she wasn't a god. 
That I needed to use that pen to write it down, not to get along. 
She told me her job was to help the wounded, get them help. 
I told her I was wounded, could she make me melt? 
She promised that I would be just fine. 
Cut the conversation, drew the line. 
I write to my dear dispatch lady, never taking up her time, 
for the line is mean't for those in need. 
And my pen does us both just fine.

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