She sat at the same bench everyday.
Sometimes she ate- usually she didn't.
Always writing, but none of it ever means anything.
(not to anyone else anyway)
People walked past her everyday.
Sometimes glancing back- usually not.
She wasn't much to look at anyways,
Besides the clothes that were either dark or didn't match
And the black hair that was always whipping in every direction the wind directed it on the days that were windy.
Same keys, same bag, same journal, same music everyday.
The music made her feel better-
It got into her skull, pulsing, pounding, and soothing.
It worked better than the 12 pills she took a everyday, if she only took 12, ever did.
This was her favorite part of the day everyday.
No one asking her for anything.
No one making sure she was okay.
Nothing to distract her from doing whatever she wanted-
Which was usually just to write.
Even if it's dark and depressive,
Happy and light,
or complete nonsense,
She always wanted to write down every thought in her head.
It helped to clear out all the words that filled her mind-
Words that people who want to care don't understand.
Words that would terrify most people-
Normal people, she supposed.
Sitting, filling page after page.
Sometimes with nothing
Sometimes with letters that would never be seen by the person they were written to
Poems of unrequited love and bits and pieces of songs-
Some of her own lyrics and some by others.
Lists, drawings
None of it ever fit together if you tried to look at it as a whole composition.
Yes, this was her favorite time of the day everyday.
Even though there was never anyone to share it with.
That was fine.
That's how she liked it.
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