Narratio is a global platform for youth empowerment through creative expression, publishing content from over 18 countries across three continents.
I have not the eye for the house and the cars,
I esteem not money a need to cherish,
But dare I say, I hate those scars,
The one’s that girls wear from relationships that perish.
But is he the fool
Or the enlightened one?
Am I an intellectual
Or am I fighting one?
As the beat of the monitor drops
and all hands come crashing down
pink drains out of masked faces
into a mother's heart
Reading and staring at the blue lit sky,
Thinking and communicating a few words without a sigh.
"Hello!" I yell in this empty room.
The sound of my voice reverberates from the walls.
Where are you going oh sweet little doll? Your master hasn't given you the means of leaving at all.
You're tied to your strings, trapped in this stage- a pretty marionette not yet seen the true light of day
Mother and Father would calm her down,
until she was in third grade and looked like a clown. They say she cried too much for a girl her age
but she only thought "how could you not cry, when someone you love dies of old age?"
Welcome to my Rebirth
Reaching towards a new birth
Captivated by the world around
Shining light to the empty crevasses
You’ll write poems.
Lots of them.
You’ll write enough poems to fill the walls in all of the rooms in all of the houses you have ever lived in.
My eyes stung, my heart ached. My cheeks were wet with realization. Realization that it would end soon. That the tape would sputter to a stop. The street would end. And mourning would come.
