She Is Cliche But A Different Sort Of Cliche!

All of 18, she creates sad metaphors in her life, and drowns trying to find stories that are not hers. Crying for silly, little things and opening her heart to each one she meets with a hope. She's hurt, but heartbroken, no. But she wants to be, to know that great mystery that might her turn her to a midnight artist and give her something to blame her melancholy on. She talks about life as if she's lived for centuries when she doesn't even know what she will do tomorrow. And music, o god, music! She listens to it as if it was some gospel, trying to give meaning to every little beat and syllable, unaware that she's dancing to the tune that the cosmos has set for her.

Predictably she writes, dramatic words of love she's never fallen in and sadness that hasn't had much of a hand in her existence. Of sunsets she forgets and some magic she believes the universe holds. Sometimes she writes... Nice. Even good, when she sheds her armour of expectations, she writes good. But then she gets entangled in her own words and is back to where she started. There is no map to her thoughts, plucking things out of the blue and serves it to you like a favorite dish. Sometimes she calls it Deja Vu, but you know it's a cover up.

She is cliche, but a different sort of cliche. She's a puzzle with pieces from different cliches. She writes, but she reads too, poetry, all the time poetry, she speaks poetry, laughs poetry, stares into your soul poetry. She says she's brave enough for the truth, and she is, but she'd rather be lulled by sweet nothings that people feed her all the time. She turns a self appointed therapist as the moon wades in, but without the whiskey you see. She talks endlessly, incessantly, aimlessly to fill silences she can't swallow, but she has thoughts that melt at the tip of her tongue, dripping into words she reserves for her pen.