019| Backstage Story

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I'm sitting right here,
In the middle of this room,
With memories of the ugly,
Booming through the doom.

No one felt it, the way I did,
The sceneries of past crept over me,
In the silence of this desertion,
I'm standing in the moment of glee.

My fingers are typing down,
The words of the time,
I said it again and again,
But they don't call it mine.

Fingers burning from the screen,
An empty plate of spaghetti,
A heart full of life,
A phone charged to seventy.

All are present here,
In their outstanding glory,
But what caught my attention,
Is her backstage story.

The story of a girl,
Who grew up writing poems,
Full of hurt and disdain,
Submerging herself in hymns.

She was a walking disgrace,
To a daughter, to a girl,
They said she is useless
But who can effing stop her?

She "fucked up" majorly once or twice,
Her family said she can never achieve,
But little did they know,
She was never the one to believe.

Now after the havoc ended,
She came back home,
Sat in her old bed,
Wrote down a song.

Fingers burning from the screen,
An empty plate of spaghetti,
A heart full of life,
A phone charged to seventy.

All were present there,
In their outstanding glory,
But what caught her attention,
Was my backstage story.

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