Nov 2014
You stand back up in this dismal world, face down at the floor. You will not rebel today; you must fit in for a few more months. You must not be discovered. Focus: mumchance. The Others do not know how plastic, how robotic they became. Perfect your flaws and mask your feelings. Imperviously, you have become a doll, a moving statue with no expression. No one can know, you will not feed monsters your fears, yet you already have.
Step after hesitant step with your eyes on the dirt, you make it back to your destination. Griping the golden handle, you open the dirt caked door to reveal your abode. Brown blanket spread on a wooden bed frame, a pillow stained with mud, even though you tried not to cry, a rickety wooden chair and a desk to go with it. You quickly close the door. You only have a few minutes before the lights turned out and you didn't want to do it gawking at your few possessions. Quickly, quietly, you shut the door, locking it with shaky hands. You may finally be alive again. But what was it like? To live before this? To be happy?
What is happiness?
You have never known that word, only that it is the opposite of disgrace, pain, and violence. Maybe it is dark and silent, like the place they cannot find you, where they cannot harm you. It is not the fire in their eyes that call for destruction. That is all you know.
Breathing in deeply, you reveal the book, a treasure to your eyes. You are aware that it is a symbol of rebellion, a relic that proves that you are guilty of all crimes. The velvet, scarlet, was soft and worn, the title spun out of gold. "Future" you mouth silently, the word too strong for your own ears. The chain, also gold, shone brightly, as if just yesterday it was formed. Yet there was no key-- there was no way to see what "Future" had to offer you.
You try everything to open the lock. You pick at it. You curse it. You plead with it. In your frustration, you throw the book under your pillow and sink into your blanket for another night of dreamless sleep. As your mind drifts and the lights grow dark, your thoughts remain fixed on the book. Slowly, you slip into a tossing sleep.
Step after hesitant step with your eyes on the dirt, you make it back to your destination. Griping the golden handle, you open the dirt caked door to reveal your abode. Brown blanket spread on a wooden bed frame, a pillow stained with mud, even though you tried not to cry, a rickety wooden chair and a desk to go with it. You quickly close the door. You only have a few minutes before the lights turned out and you didn't want to do it gawking at your few possessions. Quickly, quietly, you shut the door, locking it with shaky hands. You may finally be alive again. But what was it like? To live before this? To be happy?
What is happiness?
You have never known that word, only that it is the opposite of disgrace, pain, and violence. Maybe it is dark and silent, like the place they cannot find you, where they cannot harm you. It is not the fire in their eyes that call for destruction. That is all you know.
Breathing in deeply, you reveal the book, a treasure to your eyes. You are aware that it is a symbol of rebellion, a relic that proves that you are guilty of all crimes. The velvet, scarlet, was soft and worn, the title spun out of gold. "Future" you mouth silently, the word too strong for your own ears. The chain, also gold, shone brightly, as if just yesterday it was formed. Yet there was no key-- there was no way to see what "Future" had to offer you.
You try everything to open the lock. You pick at it. You curse it. You plead with it. In your frustration, you throw the book under your pillow and sink into your blanket for another night of dreamless sleep. As your mind drifts and the lights grow dark, your thoughts remain fixed on the book. Slowly, you slip into a tossing sleep.
I know this isn't a poem but I am trying to write a book and I was hoping if someone would give me their opinion on how it is turning out or give constructive criticism. There will be more numbered sections later. Thanks!!!
