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Only 18

18

By Annie APublished 6 years ago 1 min read
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She seemed to be happy, sweet and spirited.

She was, after all, only eighteen years old.

She seemed to be free as the wind and never once committed.

She seemed to have a tornado of opportunities swirling around her in perfect harmony.

But the way she seemed was not the way she was, nor the way she could be.

She was not in the least a spirit of free living; she was bonded by all her trauma.

She felt trapped in an ongoing episode of her very own physchodrama.

Constantly banging on the screen, trying to escape the rapidly approaching scene of fatality.

She hardly slipped back and forth but rather lay in between two separate states of reality.

But nobody could see beneath those green eyes and hurt lies claiming "I'm okay," there lived a woman, no, little girl waiting for her day.

A day when her innocence could be revived, made up for, or explained.

A day when someone would say, "I'm sorry, for I know I have caused you pain."

But nobody could see.

Even when her facade craked slightly, one would brush away the others concerns politely.

"Sometimes small things seem like big things, and at her age life can seem to unfold."

She was, after all, only eighteen years old.

sad poetry
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About the Creator

Annie A

I like writing and water (alliteration is the only literary device I remember anyways).

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