The wind chimes chime,
The bells ring,
The poets rhyme,
The people sing.
She can't chime,
She feels she can't rhyme,
She can't ring,
She feels she can't sing.
Everyone tells her no,
She starts up the charade,
She feels very low,
But it's a shield from the shade.
It continues to grow,
And she begins to fade.
She sees the glow,
She sees the parade.
People parade their miseries up,
To give themselves character and class.
She does it too.
She knows she shouldn't.
She's a handful already.
Her "shield" becomes a cage.
She'll never be ready.
To go to the next page.
Maybe this is why no one can love her.
She can't find the right person to break her out of her own cage.
She can't find the person who can love her and not the cage in which she sits.
YOU ARE READING
If
PoetryIt's a poetry book. For poetry. Edgar Allen Poe-etry. (These poems have nothing to do with Edgar Allen Poe. I saw the pun and I made it.)
