I know you cant hear me,
it's just therapy for myself,
unwritten words on blank pages,
dusty books upon the shelf.
I know that you can't see me,
eyes loiter beyond the veil,
a memory is like a photograph,
your face has now turned pale.
I can no longer hold you,
In my room feeling trapped;a prison without bars.Stay dreaming of escape in my get-a-way car,or a ship from outer space-maybe Venus, maybe Mars,I just want another place: this one seems too hard.Maybe another state; this one seems to large,for me to navigate. Man, my compass...
Maybe nothing even happened, but I would imagine something worse. I can still hear the nuns screaming at me. Heck, I still can't draw a dog very well. They should have known I wasn't an artist, or that I had attention deficit, which wasn't even diagnosed until I was an adult. No...
Horrors imposed upon me don't live as long as the horrible things I believe I've done to others. Forgiving myself is usually harder than forgiving others. And forget about forgetting.
Usually, my horribleness is overrated and overdone; speaking with the persons I've felt I've...