Pinned to the game of life, spin it for a consolation prize, perhaps you’ll win something extraordinary, either way, relish the pillaging of history.
The girl pinned on the wheel is there unwillingly, but she is there to provide smilingly, there is always something to gain from her presence.
Around and around and upside down, you’ll always win from her, the game of life, this suits her.
She’s unable to remove herself, free her stiffened limbs, but she is here and she is potent with her hidden mysteries.
She can speak of them freely, but why bother, some would balk, others would make her a pariah
Best she smiles away and preserves her words spin the wheel of life, there’s nothing of substance which she wants to share, nothing special which she’d rather say
Turn this snow globe upside down, shake it left to right, around and ‘round, watch the glitter settle, upon a now-glistening figure, upon her nose a mere flicker, a perfectly pretty picture.
Way back when, things were simpler, her angst wasn’t as present, no sense of preoccupation,
when she could slide into her bed, or curl up on a hill, and voraciously devour the life story of another, of their words she’d have her fill.
How she ached at their poignant moments, suffered along with their harrowing experiences, and looked up to those brave enough, to detail the troubles and horrors of their lives, whether self-inflicted or because of another’s devices; strife is considered strife.
So, she learned their tales, their pains, their sorrows and took on their experiences, wondering how some of them walked away unscathed, but in truth, she knew, that like her, they too likely still carried hidden scars of suffering, the snow globe’s shining glitter isn’t always as it seems.
Behind the bushes are where I can rest, quietly, softly, my heart beats, still rushing, you were my object of interest, my complete obsession.
I remember those moments as if they were yesterday, when I was there by your side gazing sideways at your face longingly and you failed to acknowledge my interior picture,
my brokenness blown in a breath, up and away, dispersed in the ache of my blessed yet cursed day.
Because when you arrived as your charming cheeky self, confident, self-assured, knowing you’d achieve what you hoped,
I prayed that you’d treasure me for me, that I’d see you more often But, our trysts were simply that, nothing more meant to be.
The tendrils behind the bushes grow and curl above my waist towards my face, they lengthen themselves as though they are meant to be there
reminding me of the twisted nature of our arrangements which weren’t even there in concrete measures, only when you decided to return communication, my burning words of yearning fixation.
I search high and low for someone to discover the truthful internal me. To connect and accept, a momentous moment to take hold.
Because I have been searching, aching, crawling for so long, in order to achieve that state of bliss which we call “Love”.
What does it feel like or mean to be truly accepted? To be considered as enough, more than enough so for another’s world?
In which you would be their everything, amazing for them, nothing more would they want, their journey, their search would also be done.
And link hands would we, together against the world, nothing will stop us from being our truthful identities, whatever we wish to become, together we will meld and ne’er come undone, because darling, let me say, you might really be the one.
We swing high and swing low, exhilarating heights, devastating falls. Because what occurs where we play nice and then with fire? Our hearts are entwined, we are lost in rapture.
Our love may seem innocent and sweet like child’s play, rising high and dipping low, smiling adoration.
Yet painfully we part from one another, the very next day in each other’s company. There is little to see but dedication from our severed scene.
Rising high then bop, falling down and thump, it’s like a never-ending cycle where we can’t decide who is the propellant and who is the flame?
I surmise I would be the antagonist, it’s just how I am, the flame, the one to catch the stirring propellant is you, one and the same.
We can fall apart as many times as we like, But in the end, we always conjoin.
Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
You must be logged in to post a comment.