She sits quietly, unmoving
for days on ends. For weeks,
the same silly cycle, lazy.
Staring off into space, not wanting
to work her eyes, pieces of prism
sat atop her nose, fogging
whatever there is to see.
She pecks.
The area around her is littered with books.
Trying to convince herself to be joyful,
echoes surround the room,
eight counts from a lifetime past
shrouding the thoughts of her future.
For she doesn't have one.
She doesn't care about herself,
she doesn't care about others.
Her priority is the black box
as she hits,
and hits,
and hits.
For hours and hours on end.
...
I wonder if the repetitive motion is giving her joy.
Is it dwindling her anxiety, does she even know she's doing it?
She could be laughing with a friend,
taking pictures of the trees, curing her hunger,
but instead, she stares are the translucent image of her own pre-decaying flesh,
at the soulless eyes she longs would twinkle,
at the imaginary people that she convinces herself are real.
She's irrational.
Selfish.
Loud.
She's never going to run a marathon.
No big dreams she's leaping towards.
Locked in a cave at the end of the second floor,
staring out the window on the other side of the cage.
This is all she'll ever become.
These are all who care for her.
Herself, her books, and her pretty little imagination,
the puny pictures of the perfect people littering the projected promises.
A ghost. A little girl.
A broken, crumped leaf,
which will one day be taken up by the wind,
yet for now, is soaking
in the dampness of a gutter.
YOU ARE READING
A Perpetual Existence: A Collected Work of Poems and Verse
PoetryHi, I'm Juliana. What you see here is every poem I've ever written (minus a few drafts that I don't feel comfortable posting). Thus, some of them are gems (see An Arbor to the Moon, The Quiet, or Hamster), and others I fully understand if you read t...
