Old Writings 7

Broken and torn. Pulled in opposite directions by unseen forces. Both pulling relentlessly. Neither giving reprieve.

Torn between past and future. Past being time whithered and safe. The future gleaming. Unsure and yet so tempting. Sparkling so brightly just out of reach.

Pulled between tradition and the desires of the heart.

Aching and torn. So confused she lays her heart open. Awaiting the press of cold steel as it bites in, leaving its mark against her soul. Open and bleeding she lays there crying. Hide me. Steal me. Keep me. Lock me away forever, she cries. Never let me go. Save my heart.

Broken and bleeding she stays curled upon the hard ground. Her tears mingling with the rain as it splashes against her lifeless form. Love me. Keep me. The wind echoes the cry of her heart... keep me....

Old Writings 6

Screaming. Pain. Darkness. Hideous whispers of self destruction. Desolation. Worthlessness. Ugliness. Looking in the mirror is a horrifying nightmare. Such ugliness. Imperfections. Disgusting.

I’m crying, I’m screaming…. Silence, nothing is really coming out.

This pen I hold is my outlet, yet so much more goes unsaid. What words are there for this lonely nightmare I live?

Just pain and darkness

I’m breaking. I’m dying, just not fast enough. Slowly Slowly giving into the spreading darkness that welcomes death.

Sleep, Oh how wonderful it would be to sleep… forever. Never to wake, never to dream. Just to float.

My soul is screaming for help. Where will it come from? Will it come? Do I really want it to come?

Living has become a chore. Haunted I’ve become, haunted my soul cries out in pain and desperation. Crying out to be saved. Who will mend my broken soul and spirit? Who cares enough to take the time? Who will help? Who will understand? Who will take my pain away? Who will put the glitter back in my eyes? Who can? If they can….. will they?

Broken… Crying…. Falling… Despair… Suffering….

Just let me go

                Let me go

                                I just want to go…. 

Old Writings 5

This painters canvas is flawed.

No painter will use it for anything of beauty. Just to be. No beautiful colors to radiate life. Just a blank flawed canvas. Used to try new colors or cleans one’s brush. It will never see great landscapes or a woman’s perfect curves. Just to be.

                Forgotten.

                                Thrown away.                  

                                                Twist just a little more and the pain will be no more.

Old Writings 4

From a cold dark world, I see a light no more than a pin prick but light nonetheless.

Reaching out, trying to grasp the hope the light brings with it, I cover the light with my hand. And it is gone.

Just that easy. Gone.

Slipping back into the darkness I let my hand slide away from the pin prick of hope.

Sitting in the darkness wishing the light would be tangible. Crying I stay in the darkness, not reaching out for now I understand hope can only be wished for. If I want the pin prick to stay I must live in the darkness.

Someone, please grant me hope.

Old Writings 3

Let me lie down.

Lay my head against its cold stone pillow and my body against the hard ground

Curl my body under the unforgiving weight of death.

Let darkness creep over me like a lovers body claiming its final kiss.

Hush now, No time for weeping…

The time has come…

Lie me down ne’er to wake again

Lie me down to sleep forever more.