they say she was broken too early
she picked up the pieces and
put them together crudely with tape
then she built the wall,
to hide her poor creation from the world

what they don't know is that her heart aches
just thinking of the city
her heart aches when she remembers the past
her heart aches when she sees his face
her heart aches because it will never be the same

he had stars in his eyes
when he was excited about something,
an energy she could feed on,
and a way of speaking that
left her feeling like the world
was, in fact, a good place

Tension runs through me
because I'm holding back.
I feel it all around me,
Can you feel it too?

There are so many emotions unspoken
So many poems hidden and unread
So many things I could have told you
So many things I should have said

Tension runs through me
as I try to hold back.
I feel it all around me,
Is it running through you too?

I check the lost and found box,
Frantically.
"It's gone! I can't find it!"
Terrifying.
The receptionist looks over her small glasses,
Awkwardly.
"Is something wrong, Miss?"
Everything.
"I lost my soul! I need it! Where is it?"
Gone.
She looks at me like I lost my mind.
Definitely.
You walk by.
Of course.
The sun is shining down on your face,
Though it isn't as bright as you.
And clinging behind you,
Never to fall short of step,
As always,
Instead of your shadow,
Is the ghost of me.
And all you see,
As you look my way.
Is the shell,
Of an empty girl.

What a cruel existence
to be one original artist
among millions

at what point is it redundant
to be unique,

and when will it be novel
to be ordinary?

when creativity became common
brilliance, typical

artistry achieved
at infancy,
and the minimum standard to be
a prodigy.

the least you can expect
is a breathtaking performance

and the most you can hope for
is a biography.