She looks at herself,
What has changed?
She looks at herself,
Beautiful? Sure
But who is she?
Sparkling eyes, glowing cheeks,
But do the eyes smile?
They just hold onto the bulb light's touch,
The inner light hasn't shone,
Not since a long, long while.
She knows she hasn't been herself,
She yearns to meet her old self
She knows she hasn't been herself,
But the act of being has taken a toll.
She cries, rivulets of grief
dripping down her chin
She stifles a sob every night,
As the clock strikes twelve,
She's twelve, again.
The past keeps her in its firm grasp,
An embrace that leeches off her joy
The present keeps her hands cuffed,
Feet chained strong to the ground
Lest that little sprite fly,
Lest that bird taste freedom
and never let go of happiness's hands.
Sometimes, she resigns to her fate,
She gives in to the ocean's call
Drowning is like flying,
For a tiny moment, paused in time,
She's away from people's eyes,
She's not being perceived,
It's easier to hide in the watery grave.
Other days, she awakens,
She's tugging at the thinning ropes,
She sees that bright dawn,
Standing in the darkness of dusk
Her heart beats fast,
And the reflection shows her.
YOU ARE READING
A budding writer's collection
PoesíaJust a bunch of poems written as and when I feel to write them
