Anguish is plastered on her face

Like fragile, etched glass.

She smiles and pushes herself,

But is surrounded with frightful fragments

Of shattered affirmation and inspiration.


The commanding voice of her father

Is strong and lifelong. 

He demands wonderland, blatantly;

But she wanders alone, aimlessly.

The enormous expectations elevated.

A tense, taut, and tearful argument

Turned into a brutal battle of war.


Her inability to believe or perceive

Drags her down into tar.

Failure had outsmarted felicity. 

As the sanguine sun sets 

And as the world whispers away,

Pressure increases as time decreases.


She needed an escape, a reverie.

Photography, painting, piano, 

She tried it all.

Only one thing stuck—poetry.

But she was no poet, just stoic.

She didn’t and couldn't understand 

The artistic, abstract language.

It made her frustrated, but motivated.


It was challenging, yet intriguing.

Like calming, cerulean ocean waves,

She selected and reflected in retrospect.

The poems she tried to read, 

and the poems she tried to write.

It made her ruminate on genuine messages.

It made her appreciate and embrace.

It magnified and amplified her voice.

It gave her the push and panoply

To finally conquer while holding a chalice

Filled with nothing but everlasting eunoia. 

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