The Trophy on the Shelf

Iron Bookshelf

Alas, she’s became no more than a trophy on the shelf…

Sometimes I wonder,
I enjoy her writing more
or the melancholy
that lurks inside.
The mirror to the
ironies of life.

Whenever I reflect on it,
I feel bad.
Since she expresses
only and so honestly
about self.

It begins to feel
like peeking through
someone’s diary,
or a private closet.
Tendencies
of the mind,
vulnerabilities
of the flesh.

Like passing
so-called
good reading time
on one’s miseries…
Enjoying stark details,
the private affairs
and daily escapades.

And then one becomes
addicted to it
and craves for more,
question left to ponder is,
do we wish her to suffer more?

She’s like a book
everyone wants to read,
for what
she makes them feel.
No one cares for
the price she pays
to become a masterpiece.

Look at the irony,
even after reading her
one forgets a fact that
she’s a life.
She was not supposed
to be known as
the trophy on the shelf.

– Dedicated to the life that unintentionally becomes a trophy. A piece of melancholy up for admiration by bystander.

11 thoughts on “The Trophy on the Shelf

  1. brutally honest my brother. we are all voyeurs, reading each other’s diaries; but then again, we are all putting our diaries out there to be read. very nice!

  2. As the others above me, I will say the same – it’s so beautiful. A sad emotion, expressed in perfectly weaved words, that form such a melancholic mood here. I can totally relate to your thought of “feeling like I’m reading a secret diary”. I sometimes feel like I’m looking through a window into somebody’s private life and I get those chills running down my spine, thinking, how crazy life is sometimes.
    Your poetry is absolutely inspirational and beautiful.

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