Poem: Jasmine.

Nobody paid attention to Jasmine;

Hands unfurled, secrets whirled around their ears-

Gossipy talk, privileged walk, they all had done it for years-

At a place near the banks of the subterranean mystique;

Called the school on high-they were all high, she said.

No one was expecting to find Jasmine dead.


Sparkling bracelets and brains like headdresses;

People hate the way Jasmine dresses-

They sit in the corner and read each other rhymes-

Of the snow in the winter and Christmas time;

Paying Jasmine no mind.


A lonely hallway with moldy walls and stairs;

She sits on a step and prepares-

To go outside, a walk-by, she says-

To the boy with the toy to put her headdress on in bed.


She flaunts and tries to summarize with her lips;

What it means to be a part of that mystical clique;

She walks with head held higher by the nature of-

His hand in her hand, instead of-

Traversing the halls alone, looking for a savior;

Out of this place called normalcy, masked, truly sour.


Then the day comes, a big celebration-

The end of drudgery and the time of vacation;

Jasmine’s boy has left; he was tempted by another.

Who took him deeper under the covers.

Poor Jasmine lost her headdress and bold hallway tread;

Poor Jasmine, they said, when they found her, dead.

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