Hi, lovelies! Well. This has been a... trying week for me. Mostly because I haven't actually gotten any sleep for pretty much the past three days. But also, in part, due to some people who I could mention who have been seriously getting on my nerves. :P And speaking of one of those people, this week's Friday Poetry was inspired by a less-than-amazing girl who goes to my school. As a matter of fact she was, coincidentally, featured earlier this week in a tender, nostalgic post about her unwavering support and undying awe of my work. She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named discovered my blog a couple of days ago, saw some of my poetry, and this was the first thing that came out of her mouth: "Write a poem about me!"
I was seriously considering doing it, too, except I have younger readers of this blog, and I believe their parents probably wouldn't take too kindly to the type of language that would populate a poem of that sort.
The good news - I managed to work her down to a stamp of the foot (yeah, seriously. I mean, do people even do that? I thought it was only in films...) and a promise that I would write about something else for Friday Poetry today. The only catch? She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named had to provide the inspiration.
After thinking for a few minutes (apparently this girl has trouble getting past anything that doesn't directly have to do with herself), she finally looked at me and said, through pursed cherry-chapstick lips, "Write a poem about money!"
So I did.
I do hope you enjoy, my alarmingly shallow-minded friend.
Piggy Banks & Happiness
sitting on my shelf is a piggy bank.
it is faded and chipped, this piggy bank of mine; there is a thin crack running through it from that time when I was five years old and I decided it would be a fine idea to drop it on the ground and watch the money come spilling out
but it is empty now – has been for years and years, ever since I first discovered bank accounts and I cannot help but wonder if there is such a thing as bank accounts for the soul.
I cannot help but wonder if there is an elusive place where all the happiness is hidden and where I might go to borrow some so I can be like all the other people who do not have to ration their laughter like I do for fear that it will all run out one day and then they will be left alone in the darkness with no spare happiness to pull out of their pockets
I cannot help but wonder if all the other people have piggy banks that are full of singing ringing coins of laughter or if the smiles that come so easily to their faces are finite, just like mine turned out to be
I cannot help but wonder if I am the only one in the world wandering around with an empty piggy bank if I am the only one in the world who has lost their bank card and who cannot seem to be able to access the hidden stock of happiness others find so easily
and I do not know if I am the only one who feels this way,
but, you see, I am so tired of living in eternal solitude because the rest of the world seems to believe that sadness is contagious and isolation is the only way to protect themselves from the disease I am so tired of shaking my piggy bank and hearing only dead empty lonely silence from within
and someone once told me that happiness is the best revenge; well, I do not have so much of that on hand. but I wonder if maybe I could find pennies of joy glittering on the sidewalk where no one else would think to look or perhaps if there are spare scraps of cheer lounging in between my sofa cushions just waiting to be found I wonder if possibly I have been lingering far too long and wondering why happiness never came to me when all along there were pots of gold waiting if I only I could follow the rainbow to the very end;
and so, maybe someday there will be a time when the smile I have plastered on my face is no longer forced and the laughter I control so carefully can be given freely and my faded chipped piggy bank will be filled to the brim with happiness just like it was when I was five years old
and the thin crack running through it will not matter any longer, because I will have realised that smiles are not finite and bank accounts for the soul have never been locked and the only thing I have been doing wrong all this time was never realising that happiness lived right before my eyes if only I could learn how to drop my piggy bank to the ground and let it all come spilling out in front of me.