She was a weird slipshadow of a girl
All churlish silences and artless gloom
She’d come to realise herself before her waking time;
Lost happiness in periodic tantrums and cold looks,
Ate little, and immersed herself in books
Found solace in the solitude of sparsely-furnished rooms.
She knew herself too well - she took her flaws
And scrawled them on the wall in solvent ink
Her logic being that her social standing
Was diminutive
And nobody would truly give
A righteous **** should she be found
Floating face-down, amongst the bullrushes.
Perhaps there would be solitude in death,
Solace in God.
Because it’s ****** to be free,
And that’s too sad.
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 12:02 PM UTC
She was a weird slipshadow of a girl
All churlish silences and artless gloom
She’d come to realise herself before her waking time;
Lost happiness in periodic tantrums and cold looks,
Ate little, and immersed herself in books
Found solace in the solitude of sparsely-furnished rooms.
She knew herself too well - she took her flaws
And scrawled them on the wall in solvent ink
Her logic being that her social standing
Was diminutive
And nobody would truly give
A righteous **** should she be found
Floating face-down, amongst the bullrushes.
Perhaps there would be solitude in death,
Solace in God.
Because it’s ****** to be free,
And that’s too sad.
Wrote this the morning after I wrote The Sleeper - third decent poem I ever wrote, I think.
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