This is the dawning life.

Sweet juices

tickling the tongue,

lingering on the lips.

Cool, damp grass

beneath her feet

and the gentle

breeze blowing back

tangled tresses.

“I am alive,” she thought.


This is living.

Laughter lighting lies,

Gossiping giggles and lip gloss.

Passing smiles,

passing notes.

A blonde boy behind the bus,

butterflies battling beneath.

Soft, reluctance,

a taste of mint and biology.

“I am sure to be alive,” she thought.


This is living now.

“Pack your bags,

we are dragging you through the dirt,”

Dragging damsels from the sheets

and bleak, black bruises.

A tower bound to the earth,

the lead in her hand massages her memory.

“We packed your bags,”

disposing the damsel to the dump.

“I live a life barely alive,” she sobbed.


There is no living.

Screaming doors,

empty bottles

and freezer freckled

glass goblets.

Facing the fractured facade,

lithely living in limbo.

Cool, ready razors

drafting the damsel’s dreams.

“Am I alive?” she screamed.


There is life after living.

Amidst the ambled attempts

and misty midnight mornings,

you meet someone,

silently singing to the same storm.

You listen to his lullabies,

his honorable humility

and suddenly,

you are lifted.


“I too can be alive,” you think.



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