(no subject)
screaming in the silence
There is no need for noise in this selfish palce
Writing, writing, the pen flies
across the crisp white pages
Retelling the tale never to be told.
Looking back, stroking the worn yellow pages that hold the memories of the past. Smiling at the good times, heat of embarrassment at the way things were handeled. Reading the past, reading every mistake. Entries burned in my mind, recited with closed eyes. Closed eyes, closed tight. Tears at all the pain, wishing to rewrite these painful scences. The power of everyword to lift or destroy, to drown in the echoing phrases never forgotten. Sitting in this dim room, writing. Writing, writing, this story never ends. Fliping through the seemingly delicate pages holding everything, everything. Then there it is, that moment. Anger, anguish, questiions never answered. Frustrated attempts to rip out the steel words, looks, thoughts. Trying desperately to earse the ink stains on the filthy pages, bearing the truth. The truth i try to hide. The pages of my mistakes. You walk over weeping, a book in your hand. I weep with you for the what is written, it cannot be earsed or forgotten. How? How then can we go on? This story i have been writing will never end, i will continue to write and hate everyword.
A whisper in the deafening roar
No one hears you, no once cares to hear you
But you hold a pen...
Write; the rest of the story will flow from you hand.
There is no need for noise in this selfish palce
Writing, writing, the pen flies
across the crisp white pages
Retelling the tale never to be told.
Looking back, stroking the worn yellow pages that hold the memories of the past. Smiling at the good times, heat of embarrassment at the way things were handeled. Reading the past, reading every mistake. Entries burned in my mind, recited with closed eyes. Closed eyes, closed tight. Tears at all the pain, wishing to rewrite these painful scences. The power of everyword to lift or destroy, to drown in the echoing phrases never forgotten. Sitting in this dim room, writing. Writing, writing, this story never ends. Fliping through the seemingly delicate pages holding everything, everything. Then there it is, that moment. Anger, anguish, questiions never answered. Frustrated attempts to rip out the steel words, looks, thoughts. Trying desperately to earse the ink stains on the filthy pages, bearing the truth. The truth i try to hide. The pages of my mistakes. You walk over weeping, a book in your hand. I weep with you for the what is written, it cannot be earsed or forgotten. How? How then can we go on? This story i have been writing will never end, i will continue to write and hate everyword.
A whisper in the deafening roar
No one hears you, no once cares to hear you
But you hold a pen...
Write; the rest of the story will flow from you hand.