She has a thing for going to the end of the train. It didn't matter where the nearest exit to her stop was, she always went to the end of the train. No one bothered to ask her why, doubt she even knew why. It was her thing. And she loved it. She walked in today, her scarf loose around her head. Ignoring every glance and every whisper that passed her way. She was effortlessly beautiful and she worked hard for that but no one knew. She had a way with words no one understands but everyone related to. Her head was always somewhere, weather it was a new found obsession she stuffed her pretty face in or a new found pain she was dying to illustrate. Sometimes, she just sat for hours as the train went from A to Z and Z to A. She always seemed lost but found as soon as she spoke. Her perfume Misleading everyone around her. Shes a rebel of all things written in black and white. She believes in love and equality. She is a mystery with in a mystery. Beyond just a collection of paradoxes. She is the metaphor for the chaotic chaos of human beautiful. She is the girl at the end of the train.
-MissRoub
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Growth
PoetryGrowth; something that has grown or is still growing. I consistently find myself doing the things I don't know how to do in order to learn how to do them. I've taught myself to grasp the fact that change is inevitable, growth is optional. I understa...
