Poem: Overlooking Normal

Standing there alone, her balcony to the world below,
She’s alone with her thoughts as the world passes by.
It’s all at her feet and it could all be hers, if she wanted it,
Or she could stand there alone with no desires met.
It’s all superficial in her sector of the world,
All about looks, possessions and not what’s inside.

Her shocking pink towelling keeps her warm under the sun,
Keeps the naturally heated yellow from her orange skin.
The tartrazine hair that’s brittle and scraped up,
Barely blows on the motionless early morning outing.
Bare footed on the decking, her toes wriggle free,
A few minutes left and then her comfy couch will beckon.

The traffic hums beneath her, steadily throughout the day,
A normal lull after and before the working day times.
She only knows from her hourly foray into sunlight,
That others have a routine more complex than she.
The children passing her, pass her by without a care,
An occasional glance and smirk at their awaiting life.

Across the road on which they all run, hidden in bricks,
The cooks of the future practice hard behind the black outs.
Wondrous smells diffuse through the fog and smoke,
Of foreign dishes, natural methods, no added toxins.
She knows nothing of what occurs behind the open windows,
She knows only of tins, cans, jars, of take-aways, of junk.

Huffing and puffing, her head’s almost lost in the clouds,
A life wasted some would say, a life enjoyed by her.
She knows nothing else, doesn’t understand “potential”,
Young or old, because who can tell with the added lines,
A sadness washes over me for what she believes in,
Daytime TV on the sofa, Nighttime dancing on a floor.

In the corner, everything’s piling up: dirty clothes, dirty dishes,
A pile of babies play near by, fighting and screaming.
In that minute of peace, she forgets all about the life inside,
Only to return and Yell for silence to watch her shows.
They’ll follow her example from now and to forever,
Living worse than rats, reproducing like bunnies and her.

She was never given potential, or the room to grow,
The same punishment falls upon them now, doomed.
None know of anything else, their cards have been dealt,
They can see no escape from their Alcatraz, my Hell.
Until men walk in and buy her a drink, receiving much more,
He can be the new father, he can be her saviour.

It all turns sour from the first sobering moment,
Yet they all cling on, sinking further away from potential.
She yells and she screams, she fights with the men,
Then yells and screams at the babies for fighting back.
Until someone breaks and the men flee in the night,
Leaving heartbroken babies and another on the way.

(c) Persephone Muse 16th July 2011
I wrote this last year, inspired by a woman who still persists on watching the real world pass her by. Simultaneously, I’m able to look down upon her, look up to her and meet her eyes dead on.
~ Persephone M
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