melissaahowells
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She liked reading novels
mostly of romance. She felt it was her only chance to have some... just a little bite of fun she barely bothered anyone the only bother was that she had a singularly lonely non-precocious mind. She came from a place where she lived well into the background... she was velvet wallpaper curling back on herself... a bit old-fashioned, a bit gauche and unrefined. She had to borrow love as a flower borrows sunshine. She had to garner her only attentions... even the images and ideas which entertained her were second-hand from long-ago times. She read odd old novels looking for themes which could make her resonate and chime... sad sagas mostly of wearied broken-down hearts. Or long-distance sort of relationship where love was a protracted unresolved engagements and no one seemed to quite connect nor part. Their desolation were, for her, so like her own emotional desert. In her life, she got the most meager notice or respect. It was as if her feet left no footprints no matter how she came or went. Small rewards she received for her emotional labors- she only felt alive reading novels... their pages were the new growth green shoots of happiness like new leaves... symbolic of the aspirations of all her bookish heroines that is how it was for her until the end. They found her curled up collapsed in on her herself in a tightly wrapped cocoon... her lint covered comforter crumpled over her... she, a little caterpillar hunched over in an uneven high-back chair in her dusty living room. Clutched with in her veiny hands was one last unsatisfying novel... in the center of its page some wet residue as if her eyes had dribbled in one spot... the pages like some burial plot for her graying head. Late into the night, lost in her one last novel her old heart had finally burst like fireworks as once again she dreamed of becoming the best bosom friend to one more of her heroines. Then leaning, pitching forward onto that book the foolish, full-hearted old woman found finally the lost pretended love in life she never took... and in the next stark morning they found her cold and dead yet within her fertile mind swelled images of love that lived beyond her then, now, and forever. DRAFT/ will return and edit LEGAL COPYRIGHT FOR THIS WORK/POEM AND ALSO FOR THIS WRITER MELISSA A HOWELLS AND ALSO FOR THIS LEGALLY COPYRIGHTED SITE TITLE MELOO STRAIGHT FROM HER TILT-A-WORLD re-edited and altered 6:47AM PST April 21, 2018 legal copyright for this newly edited poem/work and also for this author/writer Melissa A Howells and also for this legally copyrighted site title MELOO STRAIGHT FROM HER TILT-A-WORLD re-edited 4/22/2018 10:32am PST final edit. I was listening to the song "Eleanor Rigby: and thought to myself, what kind of person was she? And, also, aren't some of us, a bit more like her at times, than we might care to admit? Vote for this poem |
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