Dirty needles, petty things, they wrapped themselves into her soul,
she sits on a dirty floor in a dirty place ---
she is not whole.
Lies, broken promises, and false pretenses splatter her windshield of life,
she's lost in a complex world ---
she is the epitome of strife.
Once upon a time she was the girl who had absolutely everything,
she's scared of the world ---
now she is nothing.
Her life was a fairy tale, she had everything she wanted,
the world was in the palm of her hand;
better yet, she used to be the world.
Then blackness covered her rainbows, pain cut into her heart, lies filled her head,
she's not who she was ---
the innocence is dead.
We are not the world,
the world is itself...
we are not the world,
we're the world's play things.
Author notes
this sucks.
A contest entry
- The Ten by lowercase prelude.
500 points, ended July 20, 21 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Be brutally honest [but nice..]!
Comments
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This is really powerfully written. I really liked the part of the innocence being dead. There's lots of truth to that. Every time I see something bad happen in this world, whenever tragedy strikes, whether it be war or extreme weather, it sometimes feels as though all of us are merely puppets on a stage being played with. Thanks for sharing and keep that pen flowing.
p.s. Your writes don't suck.
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Whoa.
It doesn't suck. This is amazing. I love the last part.
We are not the world,
we're the world's play things.
That was amazing and eye opening. I never thought of it that way. It's quite catchy and beautiful.
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