Susan the Poet

| writing | poetry |

There was a woman by the name of Susan who lived in a small basement apartment on the southside of the city near the metropolotain hotel. She once had ambitions to become a poet but abandoned any of those notions and now resides at the supermarket by the train station reciting the same sad verses day after day.

“Did you find everything that you were looking for?” or “How can I help you today?” and even " Thank you for shopping here we hope to see you again soon."

Yes, her dreams were destroyed and buried deep in between the soda and cereal sections. She spent most of her time here at the store and the rest she spent wishing she was somewhere else. A drought of creativity has been running through her life for a long time. All that was left in her life was one little shred of a dream that she tucked away in a little box underneath her bed.

It was a seemingly ordinary piece of paper. Hastily ripped out of a wide rule notebook twenty years ago at James Madison high school.

Susan was a great student. Teachers loved her, she loved the teachers. She was never the prettiest girl in school but her studies allowed her to take her focus off trying to beautify herself and instead she focused on creating something that would transcend beauty and age. When all those little girls and boys that used to pick on her were old or dead, her gift to the world would continue to be a robust and lively contribution to mankind.

That was her goal, that was her mission, and at times it almost seemed to be the only reason for her live. In her mind it was her purpose in this world.

She walked into her room and sat down on the bed after a long day at work as she often did. She let out a deep sigh and looked out the window to see the last birds of autumn flee from the loud noise of the encroaching train overhead. The train came through and shook up her room as it did five times a day. She reached under her bed and pulled out her little box that was full of mementos and memories of her distant past. She fell back into the comfort of her bed, closed her eyes and began to recite the words that were written on that torn out piece of notebook paper from twenty years before.

A simple sappy satire
A humble happy home
A flimsly fucking finger
Turns into a bone
As it reaches beneath my blouse
I hide and scream and crouch
But quiet like a mouse
I dare not make a sound.
I dare not make a sound
For fear that we'll be found
then daddy will go to jail.
And I'll be on my own.
I'll be on my own.
I'll be on my own.

That was the last poem she ever wrote.

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