It is a strange feeling
When the rest of the world seems so similar,
Save for a defining difference that makes me so special.
Sometimes I could see a horizon
Within the light I'd see none alike to me.
It is a different type of isolation.
To feel extinct among billions of other beings.
It is true though.
Being young, wild and free
I was never stopped by my limits
But by who I wished I could be
My wish is still the same
Years on and miles away
And maybe some day,
I will no longer be alone.
About the Creator
Maria Irimia
I was born in September of 2003, in Bacau, Romania. Grew up there then moved to London aged 9. I'm a relatively fresh face to poetry but words are my sword and stigma is the flesh it cuts.
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I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson3 days ago in Fiction
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