they notice the things she does
and they think it's poetic.
they search for her darkest moments
just to find something worth writing about.
because she's broken, she must have
some philosophical speeches hidden.
so they dig and get personal, they
leave her with open wounds
that will take longer to heal.
they spill regrets out
like it's no big deal. she was already shattered
nothing even matters now.
they see beauty in her depressing
words, and they find it angelic.
they watch her cry and leave the those
familiar tear streaks. her sobs are a
song of despair floating
in the air.
her demons seem to be running
wild, how exciting is that. they label
these demons as colors, to
sound more insightful. and oddly enough
grey is the most
helpless. how poetic.
they watch as she builds up a
great wall that they speak of as
indestructible and strong. how she
expertly constructs solid bricks
of poker faced stares, and one word answers
as the mortar. they
are witnesses to the first person she locks out
of her sturdy tower
of solitude. they
see her disappear from this world
and reappear as someone
different the next day.
their hunger eyes gaze at her with
anticipation as they wait for
her next move. she walks
in an armour that protects her
from anything
and everything.
this shield is that deflects anyone who tries
to break down her barrier.
this armour had become
a prison as opposed
to her safe
haven.
these poets look at her
as if she's sheet of paper calling
to be written on. they take it upon
themselves to tell
her story as
they see it. these poets fill her mind
with words to convince her that she
is the broken toy that needs to be
fixed. these poets take something
they see as sad and try to make
it beautiful, but they only end up
with something twice as tragic.
YOU ARE READING
Of Small Hours and Racing Thoughts
Poetryin which i write poetry to try and make you feel something.
