At 25,
Will I ever feel-- alive?
Or will it be,
A constant uphill-- climb?
To freedom;
At double my age,
Will it be another-- daydream?
Of me, afraid?
Conversing with death--
Wishing I had the courage to take;
The plunge--
Down, down;
The grave.
I find no reason,
Or could it just be my off-season?
No tales to save,
This brain game;
Tidal-waves,
Closet hangings--
Noose to throat,
Pills to swallow,
Down, down;
Impoverished fantasy,
Or my reality--
Or shall I say,
Future-hanging, in the valance.
Another Judy, Sylvia,
Marilyn or Sexton?
Without the fame or talent, so to speak.
Just a dead-end,
Curtain call,
Waving or shaking hands,
With the reaper;
Sowing seeds to plant the flowers,
For my stone.
At 25,
Alive? Breathing?
Barely.
©Ashley Leslie 2013
