Life

She sits. She breathes. She stares. Bedroom Window Incessant Rain Soft Greys Cloud-full skies Withering Trees Emptiness… The melancholy skies Mock her lack of Purpose With their Lightning eyes of Judgment And Thundering bellows of False Praise. Dead trees point their Elongated, black fingers At her in malice For her inability to be and do. Regret, Shame, Sorrow, And Longing Fall down her cheeks from Hurt-filled eyes… But she smiles. A little at first, Then wider. Joyful breaths, Near chuckles Escape her lungs. She feels. Be it pain or despair She feels… She feels! And if she feels, She therefore must be. These dark figures Outside her window Are but a taste of life, Teasing her to bite deeper Into that bright red apple. She pulls back that red skin, Those haunting skies and horrid trees, And finds a most abundant Collection of the complexities of living. She finds that there are other things Than just darkness: Mirth Family Greatness Love. She no longer wants to not matter, To remain in stillness. She finds she already exists Just as those trees, Those clouds, Those raindrops do. Here is the apple, Existence. And in existence, She has found purpose. By feeling, She is doing. By doing, She is living. No one wants to die, To remain but not feel. And so she strives To be great within herself. I strive to be great within myself!