Shallowing through sand I search for diamonds,
excusing the dark and undisappearing stains
for a few honest shadows,
and barely breathing
for the desired fear of being heard.
I am stuck in a time where
the only hope
is that maybe hope exists,
and maybe we’re not the foolish star wishers
we see in the mirror,
we see in the sadness of memory.
I once read that poetry is music of the soul,
but it’s a forgotten harmony,
a whispered blending of the melody,
echoing from every unspoken word,
melting from the things we never say,
although, from the very first day,
we knew things would be this way.
excusing the dark and undisappearing stains
for a few honest shadows,
and barely breathing
for the desired fear of being heard.
I am stuck in a time where
the only hope
is that maybe hope exists,
and maybe we’re not the foolish star wishers
we see in the mirror,
we see in the sadness of memory.
I once read that poetry is music of the soul,
but it’s a forgotten harmony,
a whispered blending of the melody,
echoing from every unspoken word,
melting from the things we never say,
although, from the very first day,
we knew things would be this way.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.
writergirl156
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