City Of Ash and Dust

For anyone who doesn't know, Pompeii was an ancient Roman city that was completely destroyed by a volcano's eruption. All that remained was the shell of the city and its buildings, and bodies that were more simply hollows in the lava once they'd decomposed than anything remotely human. I'll be writing another poem more related to the backstory later. Sorry for the giant summary!

When I write, the words simply flow out of me, water and a fountain.

Using passages and phrases, I let out the pent-up pain,

So that it cannot be stopped till the final words of the poem.

I can scream and shout, but they’ll never let me at ‘em,

So this is the closest I’ll probably get.

When was the last time that I let

Somebody read what I wrote?

Long ago, when I was a princess and had a castle with a moat.                        

Because what I write comes from the soul, no censoring at all,

When I write, I am without a safety net, so if I fall

I will plummet far, far, down.

I will land on who knows what, and no one will hear a sound.

So I am careful, not to let anyone know,

That all my other works are merely for show.

My writing is like my reading, it

Consumes me, but I have trained it to sit.

I read anything I can get my hands on,

Adventure and fantasies dispelled with a yawn.

I read all and any tales, and they hit me hard,

So that I am left breathless and scarred.

I give them the answers they want and they leave me alone,

Here to suffer, where there is no internet, no phone

Reception for me to ask for help, simply help.

And I stay here, drowning in desperate hands and tangled in kelp

Among other things where I stand a million miles under the sea.

I am a locked window, door with no key,

You can never reach my heart, can never reach me.

Because I build up barriers, walls to keep me safe,

But the handcuffs that hold me will chafe

Away at tender skin until I break

Into a thousand pieces, no sun to take

My dear remnants to my family, they cannot touch my skin,

Instead leaving the ocean to play with my body as is its whim.

But I am lost for certain, will anyone look?

For that small girl, pulled under by books.

The End

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