It's that girl again.

---

Once more

she's sitting on the bridge with her toes in the water

and her spiral-bound notebook open on her lap.

Her dress is checkered blue-and-white this time,

but that doesn't matter.

---

She's given up on poetry

because someone told her that she wasn't any good at it.

---

But now she's writing a story.

---

Her prose isn't much better than her poetry

but no one has been cruel enough to tell her that.

So far.

---

Maybe it isn't any good

because she's still writing about her lost hopes and dreams,

the nightmares that plague her,

the negligence of her dwindling world,

the never-ending emptiness of her unexceptional existence.

---

Or maybe it's because her story doesn't have a point,

Just like her poetry.

---

But I don't suppose a poem has to have a point, does it?

---

This one doesn't.