The subjectivity in the world still scares her
Like a little girl, dwindling in her room,
The vastness outside her drowning out
That meek little voice of hers.
It’s too loud; it’s too much
Her heart cannot swallow all the
World’s anguish
So instead she thrusts forth,
Razorblades at her wrists,
A cosmic determination lining
Her lips.
No, no, today is not the end
It is neither the beginning nor
The start. It is a quixotic trance
And she’s left out there in the cold.
Dank, deep, a sadness that consumes
And in the willows outside her window
All she sees are the bluebirds nesting
They are warm
They are whole
They carry on
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 1:49 AM UTC
The subjectivity in the world still scares her
Like a little girl, dwindling in her room,
The vastness outside her drowning out
That meek little voice of hers.
It’s too loud; it’s too much
Her heart cannot swallow all the
World’s anguish
So instead she thrusts forth,
Razorblades at her wrists,
A cosmic determination lining
Her lips.
No, no, today is not the end
It is neither the beginning nor
The start. It is a quixotic trance
And she’s left out there in the cold.
Dank, deep, a sadness that consumes
And in the willows outside her window
All she sees are the bluebirds nesting
They are warm
They are whole
They carry on
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