This is a poem that I wrote about
growing up.
I’m tired of these
little girl curls…(
inevitable)
And the
music is getting to me again.
Why do I
insist on finding new
places?
Soon there will be no new places to find
Deep,
hollow-
sounding bells…could I
hide,
Could I
beg to be
inside?
Games take place in my
reality
And I know they shouldn’t be so
real to me
Yet I allow them to
control me sometimes.
I’m
haunted.
Porcelain shards and I wish I could
forget
Unbreakable, am I?
Why did you come back…didn’t you see that I
Was happy in my
delusions?
Maybe I could try a different
approach…
Show me the
reason?
I will go
mad.
And with the
scissors…these little girl curls…
Fall to the
ground in
silent commemoration.