The girl who doesn’t fit in the world but who finds hope in it

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inspiration-life-short-story-emily

Emily

Emily wants to write,

of green trees,

of orange sunsets,

of red apples.

 

But tonight,

she cries at the dead leaves,

waiting for the clouds to part.

Emily sits in the dark.

 

A train passes by in the background,

the sound of a life spent on standby.

The neighbourhood coughs;

she hopes it chokes,

blocks its noise,

to make heard,

the wisdom

in her words.

 

Emily wants to write,

to put the finger on her pain;

to undo the knot in her gut,

and shout at the rage,

caged within

her.

 

A road out front; crowded.

Inside she is cornered;

the ambulance sirens,

the police sniff

the cheesy mice

that swarm outside.

 

Emily wants to write off.

How she wishes to escape;

feeble and stressed,

by headache and heartbreak,

she hopes it cracks and collapses

in flakes.

 

A disharmonic festival emerges.

Emily dips a pen in the ink,

a dynamic rhythm;

the egoistic voices on display,

the TV adverts manipulate,

the news radios preach

and a dog barks over a cat fight.

 

She seeks refuge in classical music,

a fanatic has a historic ideal.

A romantic writes music,

composed of harmonized,

disenchantment.

 

She writes of what is;

She writes of where she is.

The now and then aren’t going anywhere.

The mind and soul are free,

to flee.

Emily’s body posed against a tree,

feels pushed by the looks of finger pointers.

 

The clouds don’t speak loud enough.

The earth spells everything wrong.

Lost in translation they drown,

beneath,

their inhabitants,

speaking a language of garbage,

hearing made up truths,

breath smelling of lies.

 

A shortage of vases, they still buy roses.

A shortage of water, they let the petals fall.

A surplus of plastic bouquets,

fill up the balconies.

Eyes closed, the innocent are ignorant.

 

Emily is glittering;

she glows on seeing

the colors bright as she writes,

exposing the grey, the black and white.

People’s transpiration emerge from chaos

and she translates the fog.

 

She finds treasure in her pleasure:

a society is intoxicated but she has hope.

 

Society is drunk;

green lights and speeding brains race,

red pupils illuminate

the bars in their heads.

 

Mixed colors, sizes and shapes

parade the midnight fanfare;

grill the radars.

Obscure,

insecure culture.

 

The pints ingested pinpoint the black livers

consumed by liquor,

drowning in shots,

emotions are shot

in motions.

 

A recreation and no satisfaction.

On the way home,

under the moonlight,

a breeze,

covered by vomit.

It freezes,

it snows,

some slip and fall

head first into their Jack Daniels.

Some are trapped in it.

Tomorrow,

they’ll say bon appetite!

 

The clairvoyants win.

Society is drunk but there is hope.

 

Football games and hooligans;

a closed third eye.

A lost battle

for the blind.

Blinded by celebrities,

fed others reality on TV,

hypnotised and unable

to watch their own reality.

 

Celebrating a goal,

idolising the clowns,

admiring the glamour,

whilst eating vomit.

 

Drunkards don’t have time

to think and understand

who they are;

shelves,

where they stand

stacked one on top of another.

 

The sheep failed to make it to the top.

The wolves faked it to made it to the top.

Vanity rises,

absurdity spreads.

and the ego, ballooned, explodes;

a disease in humanity.

 

Food baskets half empty,

and empty fridges full of beer

to burn their neurons.

Credit cards are crammed,

steamed, they evaporate in fumes,

of sport channels memberships,

who cash in

to restore their dreams.

 

Society is intoxicated but there is hope.

 

The globetrotters,

and the dreamers.

The innovators,

and the rebels on alert,

know that hope

is them,

is you.

 

Emily writes,

to feel alive,

to feel lighter;

To be part of the hope in this world.

She lights a candle to celebrate,

the glory she awaits.

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