a short story: a slam poem
her touch trailed down her cheek, her soft pale skin showed no evidence of the sun ever touching it. her eyes were so hazel that you could run through that forest like eyes of hers. her lips were tinted just a little, but they sometimes formed a smile. when she smiled, and if she smiled, you could see her perfectly straightened teeth. her dark brown hair rested on her shoulders, bouncing slightly as she walked. she was in her own imagination at times and often refused to leave those wondrous adventures of her own.
but when she was in her own imagination, she sometimes but not all the time, got lost. she got lost in the ideas of what could be and what could have been. and those ideas often drown within her. it also affected her in class, to the point she never pays attention, instead, she listens to music or draws. that's all she did at times, her boredom got the best of her, and yet she was acing all of her class.
her, a beautiful disaster, will never be written like this anymore. because who would ever want to read about her broken story.
therefore, she is better off as a short story...because she will never become a book.
a.b.