She grabbed her old gym shirt
And her black hoodie,
Slipped them on with a pair of blue jeans
Last but not least,
Her battered converses
Black suede with bright blue laces.
Silly little dreamer girl
Running out into the world
What makes you think you can survive it?
This isn't the first time you've run away,
Leaving destruction in your wake,
With those battered converses,
Black suede with bright blue laces.
Let's face it, Diana,
If you're not poison, you're a drug,
A controlled, addictive substance
That feels so good when you take it,
Maybe even heals you,
But when you're gone, they have withdrawal
Destroyed in a downward spiral.
First you left your little sister,
Then you cried because you missed her,
You see her living in the dark,
Because she don't know where you are.
Next you left the shelter,
Then you left your roommate,
Then you left his mom.
You're about to leave him, too.
It's not like you haven't done it before,
Slipping midnight-clad through the door
Go ahead, girl, let's do it again!
Make ashes of love that lays in your hands!
This isn't the first time you've run away,
Leaving destruction in your wake,
With those battered converses
Bright suede with bright blue laces
Silly little dreamer girl
Running out into the world
What made you think you could survive it?
YOU ARE READING
The Art of Confusion
PoetryDiana Miller is schizophrenic...or at least she thinks so. She has never been clinically diagnosed because her father believes that mental illness is demon possession, and she knows he would never take her to a psychiatrist. To cope with her inner c...
