Lost.

Some times we need to remind ourselves of what really matters most. :)

One piece of map in a little girl’s hand

ripped and tattered,

stained and spattered

with crimson doubts,

and reoccurring lies.

 

Throw away the familiarity

and dirt encrusted softness,

the people tell her.

Take a different route.

The ink is always the same

on every piece of paper, you know.

 

Why are you crying?

Why are you lonely?

It doesn't pay to cry over

a wrinkly piece of paper,

You spoiled brat.

It probably wouldn't even lead you

to where you really want to be.

 

Why waste your time and energy?

Don’t  take a moment.

You will not need to second guess.

If you would just let us throw away your

paper,

If you would only realize that we know what’s best.

Allow us to rid you

of your horribly smelly piece of sodden rot.

This laughable piece of map

that probably is not even all that visible any way.

 

A  shaky no is heard in between sobs.

People are forcing her to comply.

 

The girl cries with inconsolable sadness,

as presuming fingers pry

and wiggle her familiarity from her childish hands.

Tearing away her treasure of a thought.

They take the paper

and with one swift pitch,

it finds itself in the gutter.

 

Truth be told fair fellow,

not all is what may seem.

They saw a map

but to her it was a dream.

She had lost her mother,

been trying to find her way back.

A letter had flown out to her

 from a world full of black.

The girl’s mother had warned her,

of a pond near by.

The truth is reader

this night this night the ebony pools would cry.

The presuming people who had pressured and jeered,

the ones who changed this girls heart,

had left off immediately, with nothing to show

for their opinions.

The girl was lost and afraid with no map to save,

 so unwitting and unsure, a little girl gave

herself over

to the cold frigid water

of closed mindedness and the ghastly air of faulty human reasoning.

As it began to enfold  her the girl looked up for a brief moment

hearing  a hum resound from deep inside her heart.

But it was probably

just a lie after all.

Author's Note

A poem I made when I couldn't sleep.
Grammar is used to create an uncertain mood.

Reviews

[Sara-Hannah Carver]

This poem was simply gripping. Once I started really reading it, I couldn't stop until I knew what had happened. You did quite well. I look forward to more.