The funny thing is I wrote this two years ago in a poetry class I took over the summer at the Loft [if you live in Minnesota and are a writer, you probably know what that is] and I've read it once since then. Without further delay, here is the first instalment of Hipster. I hope ya'll enjoy it [y'all was used ironically].
The mother says she loves the child.
The mother says she will stay with the child.
The mother hugs the child,
Then the mother leaves the child.
The exit was one in glory and flames.
To the young girl it seemed something of the movies.
To the young girl it seemed that mother would awake.
To the young girl it seemed that the world was fading.
To the young girl it seemed as a dream.
It was warm.
It was cold.
It was dark.
It was bright.
It was white.
It was black.
It was pain.
It is all a game.
A crazy game she’s been forced into.
A crazy reality now,
A crazy Hell she is living in.
A world she will never escape.
The doctors said she would read again.
The doctors said she would speak again.
The doctors said she would live again.
But they did not know she was already alive.
She went on to prove the world wrong.
She went on to be the epitome of perfection.
She went on to give the world Hell.
I am alive.
I am living.
I am alone.
YOU ARE READING
Hipster
PoetryThis is where I write poetry with no rhyme scheme and call it free verse.
