It was passed 12 o’clock am but she still can’t sleep, her mind is still wondering someplace else. It was a cold silent night of December. There’s nothing she could hear but the ticking of the clock; and as she stare closely at the second hand, following its moves, her heart seems to go deeper and deeper each time the clock ticks – drowning in her own blood, along with her shattered dreams that long disappeared.
Poetry and stories was her life. It’s her breath, her heartbeat, it’s the only reason why she lives; but no one sees that. Everybody treats her like a lost ghost, like she don’t belong here. Everyday she’s being greeted with discriminations that tells her she’s nothing but a clutter in this sinful world. She tried to escape all those, but it’s hard. That’s why she’s now hiding, into the depths of the unknown. In a place where she could write, where she could scream and no one would scream back at her, where she could admit mistakes and no one would care, where she could stumble and no one would laugh; it’s her paradise. But it seems that even how deep she goes, even how hard she wants to be isolated,; the hands of unrighteousness still pulls her up.
It didn’t take long before she changed. That girl, yes she’s the one. She turned into a creature, I don’t know how but she did. I don’t even know who did it and why, but it happened. She’s now an unknown creature forced to live in a world where she don’t belong. A world so scary and bloody it could be called a living mass grave. Her voice and passion have been taken away from her, thrown into the pith of thorns – and everything has ended.
Wounded and bloody as she deviate the pith of thorns and cruelty. She has retrieved her voice and passion, but she’s still fighting the discriminations and bitter treating. Everything happened so fast. She remained a creature of unholiness – and all I could give to her is pity.
Before you’ll put this composition down, let me tell you a little confession. That “she”… is ME.