Those Poor Demons
There goes the gifted child,
She’s going to spread her wings and fly
But just like Icarus she’ll fall
And everyone will wonder why.
Because she is never far behind,
Creative, smart, and oh so kind
Look, she picks up hobbies like a sponge
Something’s always on her mind.
There goes the quiet daughter,
Like a flame by the water
The silent bedroom, those four walls
Of broken tears and no laughter.
Messy bed with sheets unfold,
Those poor demons are getting old
Familiar space, the bed remains
Grave so plenty, throne so cold.
About the Author:
Marina Tsiatiri (she/they) is a 19-year-old who writes, writes, and writes, until her laptop screen seems blurry. A computer-science major and an avid fan of caffeine, Marina is in love with womanhood, life, and their wonders, and her work is often about just that. Apart from writing, Marina often tries to understand math and pet the stray cats in the street she lives. In the future, she aspires to travel to Spain, adopt (or be adopted by) a dog, and publish a book or two.