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The 21.

Shadows glooming despondency uprightly, Focusing a glim of shame and imposed abandoning. ''You look greatly molded in depression, Your burden to me looks fancy.....'' That was a misery softened evil gash, Piercing through into my shallow hollowed ears. Our rep casted her eyes aside, Hoping to swift through a refreshing outlook. The sight of it burdened her eyebrows, Her lids stashed with a haulage of anger. The wicked lingered in every set of a piece, Even the tiny, lest we forget about the shiny. It dug through and through to the cores of her bliss, Sowing pandemonium, doubt and crime. What crime? Crimes of self doubt, crimes of hopelessness, Cries for help, cries for a decent revitalizing wave. Miles of cries led to crimes, Cries of eyes for miles. We are within the evil, daily We brew it steadily. Our hope, not a strategy; is that we live, We survive this feeling. We are 21.
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M
Written by
Mesah
24 / M / Zimbabwe
For You?
M
Written by
Mesah
24 / M / Zimbabwe
Published
Feb 21, 2021
Lines·Words
28·155
Notes

In this piece "Her" is referring to a large portion of young people plastered together within the currency of depression, self doubt, purposeless existence. I titled it "The 21" because that's the day young people are celebrated in Zimbabwe, alas the young people are nowhere near the need to be celebrated but to be rescued.

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