She never sleeps or seems to cry,
Just sits and watches flowers die.
Patterns on footpaths, drawn in chalk,
Heedless of those who try to walk
On by or stop to gawk.
Prefers to do it in the rain,
Considered to be quite insane,
But they can’t ever see the pain
That fills her over and over again.
And she hates the sun,
Wet chalk is best,
Better to express the mess
She burns with need just to confess
to uncaring pavement.
And though she’s out there every day
No one knows where she goes or stays.
Even when she’s home in bed,
She’s not there, she’s in her head.
And they can’t understand
Why she laughs for no reason,
Or screams in their face
How her soul is bleeding.
Packets of chalk, notebooks of sorrow,
No tomorrow, no tomorrow.
She agrees that it’s no jest,
Dreams of dying are the best.
She sits amongst the dying leaves,
Looking for something to hold,
As she mourns in grief
Her loss of belief in all things she was told.
In the fairytale all about,
How in the end, things work out.
There was a time she didn’t doubt,
But innocently believe,
Now runs her fingers over the scars
That such untruths can leave.
Crushes dead sticks into pieces,
Hoping that the act releases
But feels nothing.
Takes her chalk and draws a ring,
Pretending it’s a solid thing,
Letting nothing out or in,
And lies inside it sobbing.
Regrets how hard she ever tried,
Now her trust has gone and died
alongside her belief and pride,
That she was to be something.
Now is nothing.
Almost midnight, a sliver of moon,
And a thunderstorm approaching soon.
Yet on the pavement Alice sits,
Chalk now smashed to dust and bits,
The outline she drew, a perfect fit,
For a murder scene and her place in it.
All she need do is just lie down
In the corpse outline
On the frozen ground,
And fall into slumber without any sound,
Until in the morning, finally found,
Her body and spirit no longer bound.