Was going through some old notebooks and came across a few things I'd written. They were written during a...difficult point in my life. Sometimes I think that I have simply become numb to the situation and that it hasn't really changed. But you didn't come here for that, did you?

They have no titles, so bear with me.

 

Untitled 1

She presses her ear

to the wall,

the phone, 

the door.

 

She waits for 

a sound,

a call,

a sign.

 

The shadows on the walls,

crawling on legs

of sticks and stones,

creep in to steal

her breath and her bones.

 

She sits on the floor

naked,

beaten, 

and broken...

 

She would lend

her ear, 

her hands,

her shoulders,

her heart and her soul.

 

The voices at the window

plead,

call,

and cry. 

 

She stands and stares

at them, 

at the door, at the wall, 

at the phone

and at the floor.

At the shadows on

the walls..

 

Two steps take her

past the couch

and the phone,

away from

the wall and the door.

To the window.

 

Curtains billow out

in the cold breeze

caused by the voices

rushing in. 

 

Demons masquerading as wounded souls

reach in to her heart

and open up the holes, 

ripping scabs from bleeding wounds

and tearing at the scars.

 

Still she stands

with open arms,

heart and

soul.

 

She embraces them in her arms,

sooths their  hurts,

tends their sins,

and mends their breaks

 

as they rip

   her

      apart.                                        She closes the

                                                               window.

 

Still she presses her ear

to the wall,

the phone,

the door.

 

And still she sits

naked, 

beaten,

broken

on the floor.

 

 Untitled 2

 

Every night she lays in wait,

giving her world up for sleep to take.

The world of dreams is her destinatnion,

where agony turns to deepest bliss

and sadness turns to elation.

 

The screams from the other room begin

to fade

and all the mistakes that she has made

disappear in this world of misty dreams.

 

Nothing here is what it seems

in this quiet little world of dreams.

Every face is just a mask

made on the spot,

built for the task

of easing the pain

from outside this world of misty dreams.

 

It lasts for but a night

In the morning she will wake

and the world that she gave to sleep to take

is laid upon her with mocking care.

 

The waking world can be so drab

 and every shout is like a stab.

 

The waking world takes her in

hand

and begins to unravel her

strand by strand.

 

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Definately written in a difficult time in your life O.O I like them :3

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