Gabriella Mantone


I'M Not Sure Why I Wrote This. Just My Daily Life. - Poem by Gabriella Mantone

Down my lonely street. The left leads to a broken swing set full of memory's and decisions, and farther down leaves you in the reckless confusion of the world. To the right it leads to a further darkness. Into the broadening woods, trees that loom over you into a dazzling remedy. But I turn over the bridge. To the dirt I have tread so many times before. Up my curving driveway to my stone house. twisting the door nob I no longer think, I just act on the ritual thats so common to me. Kicking off my shoes into the pile of worn out rubber. Making my way through the dark careful not to trip over the quick dropp in the cement. Up my carpeted stairway to see the ferocious smile of a friendly beast. Patting my dog, pushing him away to get up the last step. Turn to see my mother washing the last of the dishes I left for her the night before. She smiles. I take that for granted. I click off my ipod, full of tasteful and some not so tasteful melodies, and I dropp it to the counter. I shrug myself from my backpack and let it fall to the floor. Finding my way to my room I unzip my jeans and slide myself out. As I look through the mess of clothes spread across my floor and bed, spewing from my drawers, I pause to look in the mirror. I shake my head in disapproval. My hair hanging limp around my face, I swipe the long bangs from my eyes and take a peek. My makeup has faded away leaving the face I learned to despise. My eyeliner has melted down my face. I scrounge for my sweats and pull them on, and strip myself from the layers of shirts I wear each day leaving a tank-top on. I check my cell for any messages and turn my light off walking out of my room. I see my father walk in the house hug me with one arm while holing his duffel bag and kiss my mother on the cheek. I grab some food, check facebook and attempt at doing homework. I read a book, play some guitar, or do absolutely nothing. The phone rings. I pick it up. The desperate sound of my friend on the other line. And that phone call will ruin my night. Why do these estranged people effect me so strongly. Why do I care what they think so much. Why does their opinions break me down so easily. How can people be so mean. Sometimes no one will call. That makes me cry to. Something always ruins my day. And I go to bed crying. Always. I rise in the morning dreading to go to school. Wait for the bus. And head out to the left. Past the swing sets. Out to the reckless confusion of people.


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Poem Submitted: Saturday, April 24, 2010

Poem Edited: Sunday, May 9, 2010


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