The Beginning
I once heard a story of a girl
Who honed her craft, the art of Dance.
Years in the making, one moment she had-
The world in her grasp.
The next, her legs gone.
The First Grief: Pain and Anguish
Blaming and shamed, shaking, and famished.
Oh, to burn with every muscle, to feel the strength amidst bruised, tender skin.
She lamented.
Oh, to be in the light one last time; glittering, shining, a visual delight.
She mourned.
To feel each eye transfixed, to know, it was I who held them; for that short while.
She cried.
What am I worth? If not, dazzling and accomplishing?
She screamed.
The void threatened to swallow her whole.
The Helping Hand
I see you, a lone figure called. Dressed in white, looked alright, an air of contrite.
“I can’t promise it all, Only what is worth all.”
He called.
“Here’s my hand, no need to fall.”
He encouraged .
Desperate clinging; her last call.
And.
She.
Flew.
Blaming to creating, Shame to a new fame,
Shaking still, pain grating.
Yet, She could see the light once more, her heart began to soar.
Soon, soon- I’ll be THAT girl.
She promised.
That girl I lost in the crash.
She yearned.
Those who believed, relieved the pain, fulfilled the famished need
Dance, yes. Dance-once more;
they sayed.
White robes swaying. Arms embracing.
Still Blind
The world was once more possible to grasp
But what she failed to see,
Was her slippery hold
The world, was only earth, mud.
But the something more she gained.
Was gold engrained in heartfelt pain.
The scorned saviors aid,
She was wrapped in white, but preferred the soot.
Biting the feeding hand, fleeing the helping hand.
Moments serene, coverings unseen.
The girl still couldn’t see-
Fighting with the ones who believed,
fleeing to those who let her bleed.
Left her broken, crushed like a reed.
I’m whole now,
She cries.
I’ve regained my place now,
She tries.
Rejection awaits her cries. Blind eyes see each try.
“Your legs, I’m sorry.”
They state.
“It just not the same.”
They agree.
“Unblemished, unmarred”
A giggle escapes.
“No. now there are ugly scars- stumps of flesh engrained in steel, gleaming with each twirl.”
They cruelly leave.
Once again, the broken, crushed reed; not the beauty queen.
She’s left reeling, theres no feeling.
The Second Grief
What she failed to see is the hand that held the world,
no longer belongs.
She heaving.
Irregular breathing.
She cannot believe.
She cannot believe, they left her to bleed.
Wrapped in soot, yearning for the white.
Seeking the helping hand, grasping the feeding hand
Stuff and stuff, greedily indulging.
Yet never full.
“This was worst than before.”
She voiced.
“I yearn for the serene, that covering unseen.”
“The helping hand unblocked from loving me.”
Where did you go? Did I finally push too far? The one who never leaves?
“Please come back to me.” “Why do I do the things I hate?”
When all I want is what I love?
She murmured, nearly silently.
Pinpricks of Light
The girl began to see, little pinpricks of what could be.
Not as before; glittering and shimmering, the industry’s sweetheart.
Adored, beloved; upon a pedestal, like a trophy on a shelf.
Weeping and weeping
Tears dropping, no desire to flee; except into the arms of those who believed, believed in her need.
The soot washed away.
No longer bleeding, at least where you could see.
Daylight
The girl kept on living.
She kept on twirling, whirling as her grief became easier to sheath.
She lived stunted.
Unconfronted.
Bereaved.
The death of her beautiful dream, golden and gleaming.
Now, she stares at stumps of flesh engrained in steel, silver and gleaming.
A second best image of life she dreamed.
Passed over, now outdated. Still young but too faded-
For the trophy shelf.
Daylight Again.
The girl was still living.
Yet, somehow that silver gleam turned into a golden sheen.
She’s still young, young at heart. She’s not outdated; too bright to be faded.
The shelf, unworthy of the self she had found; too exquisite to be covered in dust.
The dreams of her youth, all for naught. Strive for excellence; yes. But to what cost?
Tied to her legs, she lost who she was.
Not, just a pair of legs; unblemished and unmarred, a dancing beauty from afar.
The girl was a person.
She found that girl from before, before the crash; lifeless, encased in a dream.
What was life?
Not living.
Smiling, she glances. Stumps of flesh, engrained in steel.
Gave her wings, gave her zeal.
Her life began again, this time.
For real.
A Poem by L.V. Roy,
Authors Note: To quote Eric Roth ” “For what it’s worth … it’s never too late… to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit. Start whenever you want. You can change or stay the same. There are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people who have a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of, and if you’re not, I hope you have the courage to start all over again.” Don’t forget you are more than that one thing you always did or the things you never did. You can always change. Always. And I hope you find the courage to truly try again.
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