“What will she become?” – A Poem

I have decided to start out by sharing some of my old work, some that I am particularly proud of. The poem I am about to share with you is one of the first poems I have ever written, not including work from when I was a kid, and it was the one that really sparked my interest in poetry and introduced it to me as an art form. I love the way that emotions can be expressed through poetry, and through the use of metaphors – as it allows me to more clearly and easily explain how I feel, by comparing the complexity of feelings to simple, everyday objects or experiences. As with other forms of art, I also like how deciphering a piece of poetry simply comes down to interpretation of the reader, and how it can mean something totally different to them, than it does to the writer. So when I share my poetry, I will not be explaining what it means, or what it is representing. So without further ado, I present my poem “What will she become?”, which still remains to be one of my favourite poems that I have written.

 

“What will she become?”
Was the line that bled the most.
The ink seeping through so many pages,
That it almost became a ghost.
She thought ‘There must be something wrong with me,
Something seriously messed up.’
A damaged page in her book,
That no one ever looked up.
She had so many stories hidden away,
Written with invisible ink.
All the things she was too scared to tell,
Filling up her pages, leaving no space to think.
But there was one story her author kept repeating,
Because of that one damaged page.
That one page that never recovered,
Causing so much confusion, so much rage.
She never knew what was happening.
Never knew what, never knew why.
Never was there a reason,
For that girl to lie.
It was an automatic reaction.
Something she couldn’t quit.
She couldn’t resist the strength of her writer,
No matter how hard she tried to stop it.
She hated herself and her writer,
For causing her so much pain.
Ripping pages from her book.
Tearing out the distractions, making them rain.
Now all that was left was the confusion.
The feelings she never shared –
All the scribbles, the thoughts and insecurities –
Living in fear that nobody cared.
All the distractions have disappeared now.
And everything has become too much.
Her book has become so damaged,
There are no fresh pages left to touch.
She wished it all to be over.
It was that one line that really cut.
But nothing more can hurt,
Once the book is shut…