Considering I am writing a new chapter of my life. I enjoy the freedom from his world. I like this new me.
I can be whatever I want. So I am going to be me. Brave, kind, sweet, hopeful, intelligent and the girl worth remembering.
Sure I am damaged, rebellious, traumatized and full of scars yet being brokenhearted is why I shine so brightly.

I seek my worth in others
Live on "sorry to bothers"
And find my world in books
As reality won't let me close

I deprive myself
Of things that I don't have
And for you I think
I cannot prove less

I observe, I'm like a house plant
And the worst thing is,
I never start,
I just say I can't

And sometimes all I feel is fear
For me, nothing is ever clear
And I could shed a thousand tear,
I'm always gone to be right here.

The word death
Sends a fright
Fear of death
Right from birth

Its a known
As we grow
We come to know
Seeds of darkness sowed

Ambuiguity created scare
Death is the exception
From which there's no exception
United mankind by  this one action

It is irreversible
Not so subtle
Root of anxiety
The final discovery

Afraid of an event
That is bound to happen
Greatest irony lies
When dead we are not alive

An occurrence in our absence
Not even as a witness
Logically not even concurrent
Happens one after next

Is it conditioning
Part of greater planning
A process of learning
Everything or nothing

Never gives a feedback
So never know its bad
At the most confused
By  great thinkers argued

Unique in everyday
Never know night or day
Which time to say
I'm on my way

No reviews yet
Only theories at best
Is it good or bad
It never promised either


Ready when it comes
Easily said than done
Logically fool proof
Makes our lives a spoof

Loved ones lost
Many seperation  in the past
How long will  we last
Will never be a past for one  to recall

Are you sleeping up there in
the stone parapet in which
you spend your time writing
letters and showing how you
can trip the light fantastic

with no one watching. You,
where you retreat to listen
to music. To read your books
and with wine dream,
like Miniver Cheevy, of the
days of roses.

Do you think of me? My
perfume you were so fond
of.  Oh, how I adored you!

I am not allowed to climb
the steps to your so private
sanctuary.  The locked door
reminds me of your pledge
to God to leave me and the
child.  

We are not yours, not anymore.
You with your hunched shoulders
crying "That is not all, that is
not it at all."

Your dead heroes replace me.
I should have gone away before
I knew you loved me.  But how
could I?  I will tomorrow shows
me a new place to hide away.

Think of me when you are
inside with your plans and dreams,
and I am on the outside scrolling
across the long years in which
I am stranded.



Caroline Shank
4.29.20