Everybody knew her.
The human form a smiling sun. The free wind who caresses the grains in the meadow. The breaking of the dawn is how she was depicted by men in their poems. She is everybody's little Miss Perfect.
Her curly, ginger hair seemingly has its rhythm and beat. The way she speaks is so angelic, you'll feel as if you're on cloud nine every time you indulge in a conversation with her. She's a friend to the community, a big sister to the youngblood, a granddaughter to the elderly, and a gem who's looked up to by those who are the same age.
Everybody knew her name. And so, they thought they knew everything about her.
Except that every midnight, she sits on her bed – hands around her bended knees as it kisses her forehead for comfort. Together with the howling of the dogs, she lets go of every bit of insecurity, fear, damage, anger, uncertainty, and agony by silently sobbing as a child restricted to crying her heart out loud.
Like a building with a weak foundation, she lets her heart and soul collapse in the darkness. In the day, she's sunshine but at the night, she's a lonesome nobody who is deprived of a genuine personality.
YOU ARE READING
The Brain is Never at Rest
PoetryHi. This is a collection of the pieces I wrote for the past years. If some of these sounded or looked familiar, it's because I've posted them in another account I used to go by. Thank you for taking the time to read my work! I hope you'll have a fu...
