Life, Not Living

There was a woman in existence

From so many, she lives in distance

She holds a colored pencil in one hand

In another, a paper in different brands

 

Sometimes, her fingers press the ivory

When it rains, she turns to the ebony

Her voice fill the room and echoing—

Underwater, like a siren humming

 

There are days when books are her friends

She cries or laughs whenever it ends

But, no worries! Because she has too many

Hard or soft, she caresses them profoundly

 

She goes out, trust me, that happens rarely

Before the night ends, she makes it barely

She finds little comfort out of her shell

But, that’s life! She knows she has to compel

 

One day, she’s awakened and everything is gray

Even seeing little kids play, nothing seems gay

This is worse than blindness, because she sees—

However, there is nothing she can seize

 

Her pieces that was once colored turned ashen

The pencils she once loved look like knives

She feels nothing for them, not even passion

She says, “pity! I thought I was about to thrive”

 

She turned to her black and white keys

But alas! Even the gayest of all turned diminished

And though she feels nothing but peace,

She knows inside her, she’s being punished

 

On the shelf, books turn their back on her

She thinks, “that’s nothing out of the ordinary”

Yet, when she opened their pages, blur—

The words were, she can’t see anymore it’s beauty

 

Days, weeks. months, and years have gone by

She goes on by force, even when she has to cry

Euphoria is ubiquitous, it surrounds me

The reason why no one could hear my plea