The Girl Who Chased Her Dreams – Vincent Edward Manda

It didn’t matter
They were all wrong;
Her papi and his friends
Who’d go on and on.

Well, now she could show them
The road to hell.

She had the talent
And the voice.

Her mother had always told her so

‘Darling, I’ll never forget that day
When with that beautiful song
You chirped my blues away.
My heart swelled up with pride
And from that point I knew that
You’d do no wrong.’

She had it all
And could stand tall
She’d push on and on
Till the day was done.

So she made her choice and
Set off on her journey;
With her talent
She would make the world rejoice.

She started up and
Stepped out of the picture

He had appeared in the form of dreams again
Slipping into her waking life,
Into each and every strife
Filling her with jitters and qualms

Tickling her
Till she was wet with sweat.

Making her question her doubts
Telling her she could ride through life
On nothing but instinct.

Confidently uttering his
Almost inaudible words;

‘Ignore your flaws,
Take from that dread and dismay
That which can help you
Fly away.

The sweetness of life
Can be yours alone
And those abhorrences and consternations
Are merely phantoms
Of over active imaginations.

This anxiety you feel
Is nothing but faint-heartedness
You can ride this glimmer of hope
Out from the night and into the day.’

When all was said and done
He started screaming

‘Worthless worthless worthless
You worthless piece of cow dung
Now run and tell your mother
What it is you’ve done!’

He screamed so much
She could not sleep.
Then he played her mind
Till the strings of fiddle fell apart

Until she only wanted to weep.

Not even in the corners
Of the worst lit alleys
Would he utter those caring words
To sooth her worn out body
And comfort her quietening heart.

Could she have been so wrong?

She had the talent
Possessed the voice.
The looks were hers
And hers alone.

Yet in that moment
All she could wish for
Was for someone to come and
Calm her qualms,
Warm her feet and
Ease the stress.

To take her away and
Stop her convulsing
At that constantly distasteful
Touch of revulsion.

To rest her soul
In these now dark and lonely nights
Filled with cold razors and vodka,
Numbing the will to fight;

The aspirin thinning the plasma and
The sharpened shards of twinkling copper
Bringing warmth to her freezing hands,

Promising to take her back
To that once so dreamy land.


his name rhymes with ‘mince’. He’s rarely without a notebook and can usually be found next to the closest bottle of red wine. Previously a writer for The Roehampton Lane Journal.

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