This is not a poem
this is a eulogy and a funeral song
sung by crows atop branches
and telephone wires where nobody hears them.
This is a paper airplane
soaring through the air
Then stopped mid flight by a gray man
Who claims imagination is pain.
This is the laughter of the popular kids
Who spend weekends hooking up
And mercilessly taunting
The less fortunate.
This is a girl's razor
Painting crimson on her skin
Because her physical pain
Will never match the storm inside.
This is a skipped meal in the evening
A cigarette put out on an arm
Of a body who is long disturbed
From lack of love.
This is the sound of an empty body
Swinging against the doors of the closet
From which it is hanging
Just a hollow shell
This is the onslaught of fake tears shed
By fake people who ask,
"why? Everyone was so kind to her
We all loved her so much"
These are the songs that she sang
Loudly in the shower
Hoping that someday
She could return home.
YOU ARE READING
Favorite Doors
PoetryAn art-school bound senior with scars on her wrists A classic American lacrosse star with bruises on his face and drugs in his body And a gifted thespian who spends her free time in front of a toilet, vomitting. This is a tale of oppression, sufferi...
