She was very sensitive.
As if the volume was turned up in her head.
She started using her mother’s sedatives,
As a solution for her sleepless nights in bed.
She couldn't connect with any of her relatives,
They never showed an interest in anything she said.
Her attempts at socializing were tentative,
So she conjured up imaginary friends instead.
Her dogged detachment was her only imperative.
She could not risk the chance of being misled.
There was no one to peel back the layer of negatives.
Too many years of tears have been bred and shed.
The smile she occasionally displayed was purely decorative.
She knows people will judge her before they have even read
Her story because they’re too caught up in their own narrative.
They only take the time to read your book once you are dead.
They say we’re born alone and die alone.
As humans we are built to survive and consume.
Even if you are raised from a loving home.
You can still feel out of place in your own living room.
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Semi-Detached by Kela LewisMorin )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(6 August 1809 – 6 October 1892)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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