The lone girl lived in her own lone world
Where she made her own stories, and listened to none else.
Her stories spoke of friends that lived far away;
Friends she’d never seen, friends who’d never stay,
But she made her own stories, by night and every day.
Her stories weren’t written of ink,
Her stories smelled of salty tears and dried blood
Crusted on the surface of old paper sheets.
Now these papers of her misery reek–
Yet her stories are the ones they seek.
Unknown to the girl, she had other friends–
Those who cared about her, those who were there for her.
But this lone girl, she didn’t know of these friends,
She never thought of her life that had the chance to mend.
All she thought about was the day that it’d all end.
This little page filled with her stories, it filled with truths
That she said were none but lies; they were fantasy
That spewed from her mind, they spewed from her head.
She asked for nothing else, her stories and nothing instead;
Except once or twice, she expressed the will to be dead.
Soham Bagchi is a high school student living in Gurgaon, India. He writes poetry and prose (enjoys structured verse), listens to music, and has many other interests, all tied together by his determination and passion. You can find more of his work at sohambagchi.wordpress.com.