A Collection of Irregular Poems

Enough

She's slumped over, in more ways than one.

Her hair, her face, her clothes? A mess.

Trembling still, her heart is done.

She's done, done with all this.

She's giving in – they won't miss me, she thinks.

They'll know, yes, but miss me? No.

She's close, so close, and then she's over the edge.

Blackness absorbs her, she sees nothing else.

No spots, no light, no colours or white.

She swims into the peaceful chasm

And drifts to where she wishes to be.

Absence is noticed, presence is not.

She's learnt this over time fallen past.

They'll know she's gone. They won't care.

Neither does she – the world's kinder here.

She feels and revels in her own perfect space.

Nothing disturbs, serenity leads.

A feather of white floats into her arms;

Suddenly, it's all alight.

She's the one, she illuminates all,

And finally, she realises it.

She's enough here; she's more than enough.

The sound of her voice fills the void.

The voice they hated is now loved –

The girl they never believed in flies higher than them.

She thought she was empty, done, and she was –

But now, though, now, she's enough. She's more.