My head is haunted
by so many wishes and thoughts
accusations and reproaches
I'm really not as conceited
as people seem to think
one of my chief accusers
loves me not as a lover
but as a friend
and grows more affectionate
everyday
But what is the mysterious
something that holds us back?
I don't understand it myself
Sometimes I think that my
terrible longing for him
was exaggerated
yet that's not really it.
Poet's note: This found poem was created from the June 14, 1944 diary entry in “The Diary of a Young Girl”. Anne Frank was 13 when her family left Germany during Hitler's persecution of the Jews. In 1942, Anne and her family hid in the back rooms of an office building. In March 1945, Anne died in Belsen, only a few weeks before the world heard about this terrible concentration camp.
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