Looking Up
#1 of Poetry
This poem has actually been published in a university's annual book publication. And to top it all of, it won second place for poetry in said book. I'm quite proud of it.
Looking Up
They walk with downcast eyes, unfocused
Unsure of what the world looks like
Truly, but the weight has pressed
On hunched shoulders and slouched backs.
There are memories in their eyes
Memories of hurts and pits
Of black; cast aside,
Spit out, unwanted, unfit.
They dare not look up, focused
For fear of what they might see:
Something better than they. They trust
That the path below will give them comforting consistency.
They walk with downcast eyes, unfocused
Unaware of the others around them.
For their world remains encased
In a prison of walls dark and numb.
The walls are suffocating.
Whispers of pain echo,
Ricocheting off, cutting deep sufferings
That ring mournfully within, and it's all they know.
They dare not look up, focused
For fear of what they might see.
The dark walls that encased
Stretched higher than they thought would be.
They walk with downcast eyes, unfocused
Blindly turning in circles,
Perhaps sitting in the corner of their high walls, convinced
That the dark will remain comforting, unchanging, endless.
No light reaches them, no arm outstretched
To caress their troubled soul.
Soulless and hopeless, they remain
Bound by the laws that have them hold.
They dare not look up, focused
For fear that what they might see
Will cause the pain to flow in the form of tears shed
Mixed with the blood of a broken despondency.
They walk with downcast eyes, unfocused,
Not realizing: the walls are thin
Like paper. And if hewn down the mid
Would quietly crumble, as loud as a dropped pin.
Freedom rushes into their lungs
As they take unrestricted gasps,
Panting, for the wall had grabbed them, and wrung.
Yet they sing. "Welcome home." The world shouts.
They now dare to look up and focus
On the things of the universe that are queer:
Art in the teardrops and wrist cuts;
Beauty in the trials they surpass, conquer, shear.
Though the ebb and flow of time
Tears and throws, drowns in a bitter cup,
There is hope, help, indeed a mise en abyme,
But only if we start looking up.