As she coasts through the city,
She's oblivious to the crowds;
And she wanders on barefoot;
Her thoughts scream aloud:
Is she going to live on happy,
Or does she want to end it now;
Does this life hold no more meaning,
Or is this merely God's trial;
As she stumbles through the alley,
She is clutching at her chest;
And she falls flat on her belly,
Puts it permanently to rest;
Blood is trickling down her leg;
Her breath comes out in gasps;
This is the eleventh hour;
Beyond her looms death;
As she lay there dying,
She is calm and at peace;
Consciousness is slipping,
And her thoughts are at ease:
Her soul is but dispensable;
It gone won't cause a ripple;
And to the world she may be dead,
But really, it's all in your head.
inspiration comes at the strangest times: i wrote this during work, on this dull afternoon while i was falling in and out of sleep periodically. after i wrote it i tried to think of a theme that this poem/short short story fits. i realized it's actually damn random. but to sound professional i should say it follows the development of her thoughts, from confusion and exasperation and doubt, to a morbid acceptance of where she is or is heading in life. the dramatization of her death, as mentioned, is all psychological. is it a reflection of my thoughts presently, i dont even know myself. dont ask me why i always come up with such depressing things, even though i'm generally a happy person.
