Firesoul9

“Why did you tell her Pabbie?” a wispy voice questioned from beside the wise troll. Pabbie turned to face the speaker, a young woman dressed in heavy, layered skirts who crouched upon a stone outcropping next to him. “She needed to know,” was the troll’s simple response. The young woman shook her head, rattling the many beads in her hair before turning her gaze to meet Pabbie’s. Her emerald green eyes were glazed, foggy almost,but within them burned anger and frustration. “She’s only a child,” the young woman snapped, her wispy voice becoming raspy with anger. “That’

There once was a girl who lived in a junkyard. She had no name, this girl in the junkyard, and she could not read or write. She had no need to. She lived among the rust and rubbish, this girl in the junkyard, for it was her home. She was happy. Then one day a couple came and found her, this girl in the junkyard, and took her away. She followed. They took her, this girl in the junkyard, and put her in a house with white walls and no rust and gave her a name to keep. She was confused. The couple took her, this girl from the junkyard, and sent her to a large building made of brick. They said she would learn here. She obliged. But she could not

I always write about soul-deep topics and depressing thoughts abound. so I stopped looking deep and started writing about the surface. I started writing about how I wanted a poem that lived, that laughed, that smiled. I started writing thoughts that came from nowhere, like chocolate, like crayons, like spaghetti. And quite soon I found I liked it much more than if I tried to look deep down. Yes, I wrote a poem about a poem. And you just finished reading it.