The Truth of Our Generation
By Jana Shehab
How often does one get to express himself?
The young girl sits in the rocking chair
A beautiful night it is
But the girl was predisposed to look downwards
All thoughts but hers fill her decomposing head
How come her self-expression is not worth that of others?
The tree, all damaged, severely mangled, after the storm
Is nothing but a fading image of what used to be
For the tree was not a reality
But rather this tree her own self-conviction
Plummeting to the depths of an empty landscape
Years of melancholy past
Inflicted by passing figures
She remains there
Unhinged, trapped in the solace of the bright beaming light
The creaking of the chair her only source of rhythmic distraction
The dreadfully bright and illuminated silence her only companion
Why does she cry?
No one will hear the sound of her tears
No one will hear
For none listen
But perhaps it is her own fault
For how often does one get to express themselves?