Standing on the platform, desperately trying to conform. Longing to fit in.
These thoughts inside my head, they tell me I’m better off dead. What if I just took one step forward, then another… and another. Knowing that the next train would surely smother… me.
I’m a prisoner in my own mind, some may say I’m one of a kind but I don’t think so. I’m just a warrior fighting daily battles just like anybody else, right? Wrong. We may all struggle but I am in my own fight. My own mind. One of a kind.
I and my suitcase are boarding the train now. I managed to fight and resist the urges somehow.
Seated, Feeling defeated. One headphone in my ear listening to some new pop song. I’m people watching as other desperate souls walk along the platform beside me.
......
I know you’re out there
I know you’re listening
All is not well
Each thought going at my brain
Brawling until I can I longer think
Until I can no longer feel
Uselessness cuts my legs
Isolation feeds on my tears
Each breathe runs fast
Oxygen is escaping quickly
......
Rotten memories
Glass breaking.
Doors slamming.
Yelling.
Staring at the hurricane in my home
I just stand still
what could an 8-year-old do.
Except stand and watch in fear.
My dad would throw things at everyone
......
I often wonder when I’m writing
Why, what use is it to take these words in my head and put them on a piece of paper
It’s not like they’ll ever be shared
It’s not like someone would read them and care
I often wonder am I just stalling until I learn how to speak again
Stalling until the storms and the silent thunder that echo in the cavern of my mind finally find their strength and learn how to die
......
Not to shudder nor to fall,
Not to blubber nor to shake.
Not to run, not to give up;
Not to be enslaved by mistakes.
Not to bow down hopeless and cry
Not to blame God and ask why.
Not even to stop a little while...
Long the mile and naught the time.
......
People get argry
We all have emotions
Along with ideals
Humans are violent
Which leads to a unholy concoction
FIGHT
It can be over petty childish squabbles
Or over the fate of the world
......
Four corners of my home
As if I knew what home was.
Was it the screaming of pain?
The shouting of my mother,
Or was it my dad, abusing her?
I Remember that time
Of Old rain and thunderous clashing
The breaking of pots and pans
To the dishes that crack.
And the monstrous yell,
......
Rotten memories
Glass breaking.
Doors slamming.
Yelling.
Staring at the hurricane in my home
I just stand still
what could an 8-year-old do.
Except stand and watch in fear.
My dad would throw things at everyone
......
Not to shudder nor to fall,
Not to blubber nor to shake.
Not to run, not to give up;
Not to be enslaved by mistakes.
Not to bow down hopeless and cry
Not to blame God and ask why.
Not even to stop a little while...
Long the mile and naught the time.
......
I often wonder when I’m writing
Why, what use is it to take these words in my head and put them on a piece of paper
It’s not like they’ll ever be shared
It’s not like someone would read them and care
I often wonder am I just stalling until I learn how to speak again
Stalling until the storms and the silent thunder that echo in the cavern of my mind finally find their strength and learn how to die
......