Little Lost GirlA Poem by unsurewordsmithA short poem
No one looks closely enough to see the deep scars,
painted like tears on her bone white arms. Everyone too busy to notice or care, that her porcelain skin is no longer bare. Etched on her skin with a sickening swirl, no-one caring enough to miss the little lost girl. Falling and flailing and gasping for air, her life non-existent, she's not even there. Walking and stumbling alone in the dark, her light slowly fading, no fire, no spark. Beaded with sweat and lost in defeat, she walks, forced to stare at her own two feet. She's not good enough, life's not fare, nothing can save her, no promise or prayer. Everyone caught up in their won little world, never bothered to check on the little lost girl. Lines running deep lay there on her skin, not knowing which way is up, or where to begin. Memories are tainted and disturbing for her, like night terrors in her dreams they recur. The world around spinning, becoming a whirl, no-one stopping to check on the little lost girl. The little lost girl covered in blood there she lay, the stains on her wrists, the final price she did pay. The little lost girl once again causing grief, as her family accuses the knife like a thief. Everyone shedding a tear for her sad little life, donning black, forced to confront the scars from the knife. Now merely a memory for the ones who remain, soon the little lost girl will be forgotten again.
© 2014 unsurewordsmithAuthor's Note
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2 Reviews Added on March 12, 2014 Last Updated on March 12, 2014 Tags: Depression, suicide Author
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