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?

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

Mere fantasy

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?