Anaphora

I never knew what an anaphora was until today, but I've written them before. I've decided to do this week's assignment from the Phantom Professor because it's a poem and I like the idea and, well, I want to.

Something I love or hate . . . Love is so hackneyed, and I've been feeling so negative this week, so it will have to be hate, won't it. What do I hate? I try so hard not to hate.

Why is it always about me?
Why can't it be about something else?
Why can't I just write and fly?
Why isn't life just free and clear?

Why isn't a fair question.
Why is just an excuse.
Why can't you take responsibility?
Why doesn't it work?

Why can't I make up my mind?
Why can't I just write?
Why do the questions have to be so hard?
Why can't they read what's inside me?

Why am I feeling so confused?
Why do I come back to me?
Why is a two-year-old blamed
For constantly asking why?

But that wasn't the assignment, so I'll have to do another one. I'm not even sure what I was writing, but it's way too personal to post in comments on someone else's blog. That one will stay here, and I'll write a nice, predictable, happy anaphora.

When I look at you, you're there for me.
When I cry, you hold me tight.
When I think about being alone, I'm not.
When you're there, everything will be fine.

When you hold my hand, I look into your eyes.
When you look into mine, I am safe.
When I feel that nobody cares, there is you.
When you go, I am lonely, but never alone.

When you need me, I hope that I'll always be there.
When you cry, I will hear - that I know.
When you're there for me, I will be there for you.
When we're together, we're one.

When I grow, you will take on different names.
When I was young, you were mom.
When I grow older, though, you'll be him -
And you'll stay him for the rest of my life.