Most of the time I simply observe
A delusional form of self-improvement
This constant state of silence, a dreamy disorder
Hearkening for a clue to escape the reserve
Another glance at the clock,
Telling me a life spent resting in peace is one waisted
Just because one is oblivious to silent destruction,
Does not mean enlightenment is not real
I am not just scared but terrified
Of what else I cannot see
Though I have not stopped staring since the age of three
And if it is not the lack of ability
It is more like a missing vigor with which I pursue
The dream of the quiet girl, an identity found
- In doing, talking, persisting et cetera
~ Chelsea A.
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