She was used to pain, discomfort was a norm in her life, was she ever understood by the majority? No.
Tara never had love she knew she deserved, from the guy who walked out on her to the one who treated her like yesterday's meal and also the one who hit her...
And of the many things people complemented her for, she never believed anyone could be touched or inspired by her writing; so she sometimes fine tuned it to fit societal views or never let it out her journal.
So she wept each day enough to wipe out the entire human race, she walked around wishing she was not alive, she stayed awake desiring a love or fulfilment of her dreams to take this cloak of darkness that now fit her skin tightly.
Everyone drew a picture of her and bought shoes for her to step in, did they ever ask what she wanted to do? Should she give up her dreams and settle for a life soaked in mediocrity? She was tired of this life of uncertainty and third party guidance that had now become hers.
Tired of being unguided and letting her dreams burn on her inside and scald her from unfulfillment; she got her journal and wrote; and six hours later, like the pen of a ready writer Tara wrote... Filling up the pages of her journal she poured her dreams and smeared it like it was in her heart.
She had given up on love, it felt like anyone she loved left her or eventually took her for granted... So her heart had long packed up from starvation. As she lay in the park that evening dreading the next day of the rest of her life; he touched her and she felt a weight lift off her chest, he looked like the 23rd poem off her anthology series, she didn't know where he came from or who he was but she liked how she felt and she wasn't giving this up for anything; he pulled her up as if pulling her out of anguish and they walked away...
Tara never had love she knew she deserved, from the guy who walked out on her to the one who treated her like yesterday's meal and also the one who hit her...
And of the many things people complemented her for, she never believed anyone could be touched or inspired by her writing; so she sometimes fine tuned it to fit societal views or never let it out her journal.
So she wept each day enough to wipe out the entire human race, she walked around wishing she was not alive, she stayed awake desiring a love or fulfilment of her dreams to take this cloak of darkness that now fit her skin tightly.
Everyone drew a picture of her and bought shoes for her to step in, did they ever ask what she wanted to do? Should she give up her dreams and settle for a life soaked in mediocrity? She was tired of this life of uncertainty and third party guidance that had now become hers.
Tired of being unguided and letting her dreams burn on her inside and scald her from unfulfillment; she got her journal and wrote; and six hours later, like the pen of a ready writer Tara wrote... Filling up the pages of her journal she poured her dreams and smeared it like it was in her heart.
She had given up on love, it felt like anyone she loved left her or eventually took her for granted... So her heart had long packed up from starvation. As she lay in the park that evening dreading the next day of the rest of her life; he touched her and she felt a weight lift off her chest, he looked like the 23rd poem off her anthology series, she didn't know where he came from or who he was but she liked how she felt and she wasn't giving this up for anything; he pulled her up as if pulling her out of anguish and they walked away...
This is really good . Tara . More of this please ����
ReplyDeleteHmmmmmm girl friend this to me is a poem and a nice one at that
ReplyDeleteWow! Sounds like the beginning of something beautiful. I liked the timing too. Just when she had decided to give up on everything. I like this piece. It is sad that creatively inclined people are often misunderstood this way. I believe it sometimes just pushes then a bit too far into their passion; forming a kind of grave for them. And so, their passion becomes an emotional tomb of sorts. Great piece Keren. Keep it up.
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