The Busker
By Gracie
The white page stares out at me, the lines to write upon run
just like prison bars across it. Trapping in my words, holding in
my emotion. I cry out, but my voice just chokes and I realise
that I too am confined to silence just like the ghostly page.
The tears glint in my eyes and I know that the reflection in
them will be that of the view through my window.
Rain falls at an angle and collects in puddles on the road and
pavement. The sky is neither stormy nor still, just......grey. The
houses that line the street drip water from their leaking gutters
and the windows with shattered glass seem to look out at the
scene in a depressed manner, their eyelids drooping. One
single leaf clings to a twig on the big, black tree that grows on
a patch of dying grass, Then it falls, spiralling down to the
ground.
I step out into the street, wrapping my shiny, black waterproof
coat around me. My shield, not just from the weather, but
from the people, the strangers. I don't want them to see who I
am inside. I am a writer, I feed off of the crazy inspiration that
wells up inside me, demanding to be pinned onto paper. So
when I can’t write, I don't know who I am. I feel like a sort of
spirit of a past writer, who wanders with all purpose lost. Who