Fingertips

Fingertips

Morning light pierces trough the drapes,

particles of dust, twirl in the air.

Tiny fingerprints reach for the dancing flecks,

a little girl with dark-eyes and auburn hair.

 

Far different from the other six,

this little one heard voices in her head.

She often played with the monsters that hid,

within the closets and underneath her bed.

 

Those around her thought her peculiar,

as she was often found alone,

hiding in a space between the lilac bush,

and the red brick of her childhood home.

 

Her fingertips would press letters into dirt;

names of those she could not see.

she never feared the darkness that surrounded her,

she was content to just… well be.

 

But this little girl now a woman,

what’s left of her sanity she desperately grips,

but the monsters she once played with,

attempt to pry loose her fingertips.

Reviews

[Chris]

Perhaps they still want her to come and play?

[Gabriel]

although I think it could be better, this is the type of poems I like.
Thanks for sharing.