I used to sit
and
think about the times when things were differently.
A finished P
u
z
Z
L
e.
that painted a picture of a girl, so vividly.
With a smile so bright that caused her eyes to crease in youth.
L
O
N
G
thick locks that kissed her melanin skin and joy that strickened her from the truth, yet the roots--had already sprouted and progressed in its route.
Her grin no longer shined
Her eyes sunk
Her skin lost its glow.
She was torn and the pain began to grow.
The blood beneath her veins turned cold.
It was almost as if a ghost--had taken her soul.
She wasn't dead, but she might as well have been.
It was the end of her game and the buzzer blew. Her image was broken into pieces and puzzles that didn't fit, she'd stick--and fix with glue, because this picture she painted was in ruins and outsiders had no clue--of the pain she was going through.
However
a new day had arisen and just like the day before she'd open up a new puzzle that she had hidden, a smile of reluctance that had painted her face, for it knew it didn't need permission.
I was she and behind these p
U
z
z
L e
S
were my prison.
YOU ARE READING
P.O.E.T.R.Y
PoetryPo•et•ry /poh-i-tree/ noun 1. the art of rhythmical composition, written or spoken, for exciting pleasure by beautiful, imaginative, or elevated thoughts. 2. literary work in which special intensity is given to the expression of feelings and ide...
