Saturday, March 3, 2012

Saturday, March 3, 2012; Headaches

If our memories were to fill a book, then there would be less than seventeen pages. Only specific instances would be permitted to form sentences or maybe just sentence fragments. Smiles could be seen in between the lines of chaos & righteousness; prayers can be read from the ink smears & coffee stains.
Sometimes I believe my memories have been robbed from me & replaced with disgraceful lies & empty hopes. A protagonist, drowned. Kindness is no longer a friend, but an enemy or so to say, a hoax. Trust no longer binds me to anything except for the force that holds my feet to the ground. & now that love's no longer here, why am I still breathing? 

I don't know & I suppose I'm supposed to write my troubles in a leather bound book. Retracing my steps, discovering each memory you've taken. My sanity was lost within a rage unheard by most & I don't want it back. I'm glad that I went through the things that I went through. Almost losing my life several times only certified my right to breath. Having my worth belittled each morning only reassured me that I am the opposite of what I've been told.
I still miss the hands that harmed me but I still hate the world around me & all I crave is sunlight. 

No comments:

Post a Comment