4It's that girl again.
Once more
she's sitting on the bridge with her toes in the water
and her spiral-bound notebook open on her lap.
Her dress is checkered blue-and-white this time,
but that doesn't matter.
She's given up on poetry
because someone told her that she wasn't any good at it.
But now she's writing a story.
Her prose isn't much better than her poetry
but no one has been cruel enough to tell her that.
So far.
Maybe it isn't any good
because she's still writing about her lost hopes and dreams,
the nightmares that plague her,
the negligence of her dwindling world,
the never-ending emptiness of her unexceptional existence.
Or maybe it's because her story doesn't have a point,
Just like her poetry.
But I don't suppose a poem has to have a point, does it?
This one doesn't.