decrepit

A Poem by FaeryQueen

on the spot poetry

into the sunny voids; the darkness is overwhelming, silently treading. what do you offer? maybe once, I knew of you a while ago, but I do not know you anymore, so, what say you? I come from filth, though, I know I could change that at my own will, though, I do not choose to. it is okay, I come from chipper bark that chips at the sides, my mother would not even dare to lift a toe out of line, and within her shadow, stands mine, not taller than hers, but fearful- short from all the fear that it's absorbed through the ages. maybe once, if I could take my own breaths; but I have (I just put myself down, because... well, there is no reason for me to continue this behavior, I am an adult; and though, yes, I am an adult, I fear of all the things that can go wrong, as often as I think of all the pearls I may bring, I also think of all the rotten cores that may be thrown around at my presence).

but I have nowhere else to go, and so, I sit and think until I am 86 years old. I do not want to wait that long; I suppose it's high time I started taking my own initiative.

I do not know who I am. my name is a mystery I cannot begin to pronounce. Who is this person I am turning into; what is her secret, someone please tell me where she shops at, so that I may also shop there, because she is a brand-new human that I did not know existed?

it gets hard sometimes; and on days that are the hardest to manage, I handle it no longer than I need to, I sleep; and into my dreams become my biggest problem. and over hills, and soaked through clouds, and it cannot ever even touch the sun, the sun is too massive. the mass of the sun is much too heavy, compared to the mass of my dimes.

where is the solution, if ever there was one? how many dimes have fallen beneath my feet? what sounds did they make, or did they forget to make noise to alert me of their status? I do not know of the times, but I know of the clock that stands atop the mantle of my home; no, not my parents' home, but mine... if not you know of it, then you must not have known me at all, and for that I must apologize; I’ve been gatekept, but it all was out of my control, and though you'll say I’m twenty four years old, I won't have a rebuttal prepared... so, I’m assuming that the childish way of war should be presented unto you, a hearty, "you win!", fully loaded with a ribbon and a bow, golden stars on your chart, mister, for you have won an undisclosed prize of ego and bragging rights... I hope they light up the night, which you are so afraid of, as am I- i do not shame you for being afraid of the darkness, not the way you've shamed me for being twenty-four years old, unable to be as my own heart beats.

Where does the story end, you may ask; I assure you, the story does not end with me because I am more than the blood I bleed, more than my inabilities; I bet you I am even more than my incapabilities, for I will overcome them someday.