The freshly-awakened author sits there,
On her favourite pink plush chair,
A pencil ready on her fingers,
Those fingers aching to scribble down millions of conjoined letters.
As she grabbed her trusty notepad, however,
She could only stare at the blank white page.
No matter how hard she tried,
Her gears of creativity refused to turn.
Her mind clouded as her misery grew,
Each rising morning,
Each falling night.
Her only solace only in the books she read.
Her hand stuck in time,
Pencil hovering above the page.
Not a mark upon the paper,
Which was then flung across the room in outrage.
Then one wistful day,
She brought herself to the window,
Gazing on the grey sky.
Bringing back memories,
Of a particular past...
An athletic runner,
Her legs as agile as a deer,
Zoomed her way through the thundering rain.
A watchful passerby pitied her,
Though she continued,
Like a dog wet to the bone,
Searching for shelter.
Though,
It wasn’t shelter that she desired.
It was the thrill and fame,
The praise of critics.
Her talent was her freedom,
Her life,
Everything she had always been.
Her arms pumped to the rhythm of her legs,
The sweat of her hardwork camouflaged by the rain,
Streaming down her face.
Little did she know that,
She,
The runner engrossed in her drug,
Would then come to her doom.
If only she had foreseen the danger,
Her addiction would bring.
Her feet pounded,
Dodging past reflections of herself on the road.
Her head thrown up,
Laughing at her short-lived victory.
Then, a splash was heard,
Her legs gave away.
She found herself engulfed in the waters of pride.
What was once a reflection of her,
Became her downfall.
She, the “immortal” runner,
Was just one mortal,
Fallen to her own hard heart.
The storywriter looked away,
Gaze falling upon her own hands,
Her second talent.
Once again,
Predicament had creeped into her life.
She wheeled herself to the mirror,
That face which once bore the perfect smile on stage,
Now overcome by the droopy eyes of defeat.
Putting on her hat,
She mindlessly strolled down the road,
Digging through the bustle of passer-bys for inspiration,
Her new drug.
Her dark eyes laid upon one boy,
Leaping from pavement to pavement,
His outline a blur,
A mirror of her old self.
She grabbed his strong arm,
Whispering like a caring grandmother to her naive grandson,
“Beware of the puddles,
Don’t let them bring you down.”
He looked up at her through long lashes,
And down at her awkwardly bent legs.
Nodding,
He continued on his way.
But he turned back,
Flashing her a smile,
Mouthing a ‘thank you’.
That night,
When rain thundered down her roof,
She once again with a pencil between her fingers,
An idea struck her mind.
Why not combine both of her talents together,
And write something inspiring?
The writer,
Her head once more in the clouds,
The staccato rhythm of her pencil tip jotting words,
Echoing through her dimly-lit bedroom.
Manipulating her talent,
Not for her own pleasure,
Like before,
But for the delight of her readers,
And to comfort her fellow victims of injury.
// author’s note //
I don’t know why I wrote this awfully long poem.. This is something way different to my original goal, but eh, at least I got something done right? Hope you enjoy the product of my weird imagination!
- shay
P.S. sorry if there are any grammatical or vocabulary or poetic structure mistakes hahahaha
