Red Balloon

I'm the poet who's begging you to not read in between the lines.
A silent prayer stitched into the paper.
These words are like a shallow pool.
There is nothing more than meets the eye.
I'm just the girl with a red balloon,
tied around my finger and a pocket full of thumbtacks.
The color doesn't represent my emotions.
If I let it go, I won't have it anymore.
If I pop it, I'll have a reminder of it.
My dilemma isn't symbolism of an inner conflict.

There lives in my head,
a world where a red balloon is just that.
A world where the words inside my head
aren't afraid to make it onto paper.
Where my voice doesn't waver when someone
asks what I plan on doing with that balloon.
Some whispers are louder than screams.

The thread around my finger
tied a little too tight.
My grip on this balloon
a little too much.

There are poets out there,
with beautiful minds, beautiful souls.
But here I am.
I'm just a girl with a red balloon.





-V