Destined

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  • Angst

    Destined

    Her cries were heard before her head moved out of her Mother’s womb.
    Her eyes were a deep blue that took you into the depths of her very soul, reflecting the gravity of it all.
    This baby was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.
    It felt inevitable that this little one’s life was going to be hard and cold, a road that she came into this world unprepared to travel, yet destined.

    Cries of fear and uncertainty?
    No, cries of all knowing dread.
    Tomorrow is coming, and she will live.
    Live through it all.
    All of the pain and suffering that she owned coming in.

    As she experienced life, her mind rang out in daunting thoughts of futility.
    Walking through the fire daily, grasping at glimpses of hope, but only finding her hands filled with empty despair.
    Trying to find a song in her night, she only felt a choking.
    Daily her heart fought off the darkness that was trying to embrace her.
    Disappointment came in many packages such as disease, molestations, beatings, trickery, mental scourging, emotional blackmail, pain, un-forgiveness, adulteries, anger, hate, deceit, loss, anguish and defeat.

    But, for a fleeting moment life felt sweet, just long enough to tease the desires and hopes of her young expecting heart. Everything she touched prospered, only to be squandered away by her debaucherous companions. Her heart wilted, and then hardened as survival took over, but slowly emptiness had its way with her, suicide seemed to be her ticket to freedom. But, she could not even accomplish death, for you see she was destined,
    destined to live.

    Lena M. Fuller
    3/2008

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    mmichelle97219 commented on Destined

    02-13-2009

    It has a nice smooth meter to the poem like melted chocolate. A bit decadent and very beautifully written. Nice job. Happy Writing Michelle

    LenaMarie

    06/26/2009

    Thank you for the nice words Michelle.

    The true philosopher and the true poet are one, and a beauty, which is truth, and a truth, which is beauty, is the aim of both.

    Ralph Waldo Emerson, American Poet (1803-1882)

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