Darkness falls over her city.
Yet another day had come and gone.
She collapses into her bed, weak and defeated.
She clutches her favorite pillow and sobs bitterly.
When will this nightmare blossom into a dream?
Her heart feels heavy.
Not figuratively so; her chest aches.
Is this her life?
Is this it?
Is she to go by unnoticed and disappointed
Til the end of her days?
What can she hold on to?
What could possibly make her want to stay?
She lives on like this,
But, clearly, she is not living.
She is surviving.
She lives her life as if she is hanging on to
The ends of a frayed rope.
Yet, every day, she smiles. She laughs.
She looks untouchable. Invincible.
But, as she sobs into her pillow every night,
She can't help but hate the world
For being so blind, so shallow,
Unwilling to see her suffering.
The tragedy of this story
Is not that she dies,
But she keeps surviving, day by day,
Pretending to be alright
Until she is old and at the end of her life.
Never once had anyone cared,
And never once had her heart healed.
YOU ARE READING
Tragic Poetry
PoetryHere, you will find a collection of sloppily written, heartfelt "poetry" (it can hardly be called that, as it has no rhyme or rhythm - only stanzas). These words stem from my late-night thoughts and fears. Although they are merely a mess of nonsensi...
