Poetry

Young

There was a young girl,

And that’s what she was:

Young.

Only that idea didn’t feel right,

Like a pair of pants,

Too loose over here,

Too tight over there,

No, she wouldn’t say she was

Young,

But she was.

Her outlook of future,

Always oscillated,

Hopeful this day,

Pessimistic the next,

Except the hope didn’t feel right,

And neither did the pessimism.

Like a meal where the meat is undercooked,

And the vegetables are burned.

Always underwhelmed,

this young girl was.

She only had her two eyes,

To see,

And those eyes lied to her,

She only had one brain,

To think,

Only that brain fed her fiction,

She only had one life,

To live,

Only that life felt as if,

It was a lost cause.

It wasn’t.

What she didn’t see,

with those lying eyes,

was the love,

peculiar love,

surrounding her

What she didn’t think,

with that fiction feeding brain,

was about infinite opportunity

available for her,

despite how the wind chose to blow

What she wasn’t doing

with her life

was living

Yes, her heart,

too big for her own good,

kept pumping.

And yes, her lungs,

which felt heavy,

did fill with air

and let it out,

She was a urviving,

She’d say.

But she wasn’t

Living

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