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| Rating | Rated by |  | | 8 | jonpenny | | | | 8 | woalook100 | |
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There’s this girl I know. She has pretty hair, the kind that bounces as she walks, and smiles when she’s not looking. She is the one who writes the songs, telling them to sing along. But with that walk, on pitch black night, where only the moon can spark the light, she is alone and drops her head, in drunken haze she cries for bed. Away from things and smells and tastes that make her think about the way in which she moves from place to place ignoring herself: for fun’s sake.
In wistful skies she sees herself, looking back from so far out. Her eyes sweep across the stars and alone she wonders calm and far. Without purpose she is fulfilled and completed by the stillness that begins to ebb away all the things she saw today. Oh wouldn’t she be something else if she were somewhere different, far beyond what she has been and someone new but still the same? In the amber forgotten night amongst cars and dull streetlights she is sombre but smiles still thinking nothing, no time to kill. Isn’t she happy? She starts to think. Now all things are lost with drink, tomorrow is another year which its company will never clear. Isn’t she happy? Is she still sad? All the moments never had for keeping up with her own self, just what has she left out?
Is it a shame?
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Remember my friend, despite all you are, all we are, the universe will tick on, long past our departure.
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