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Literature Text
I see the pain in your eyes as you pass me in the corridor.
Those steely grey eyes holding so much.
I see the tears you show no-one, alone in a dark room, alone with your dark thoughts.
I see your face hidden underneath that mask you parade to the world.
Even though he has hurt you, you love him nonetheless.
All I want to do is cross the room, to where you're standing,
and tell you that it doesn't have to be this way.
That I can give you something honest, something warm, instead of the cold pain.
To drag you from the torture your heart has done.
And to those people that hurt you, I will be the one to pick up the pieces off the floor and fixes the puzzle of your broken heart.
I will the maker of your wasted time, and messiah of your lost faith in happiness.
I will be your defender, and I will be the one to pull you to your feet.
And when when you can stand by yourself and remove your mask, I will be the one standing by your side.
Those steely grey eyes holding so much.
I see the tears you show no-one, alone in a dark room, alone with your dark thoughts.
I see your face hidden underneath that mask you parade to the world.
Even though he has hurt you, you love him nonetheless.
All I want to do is cross the room, to where you're standing,
and tell you that it doesn't have to be this way.
That I can give you something honest, something warm, instead of the cold pain.
To drag you from the torture your heart has done.
And to those people that hurt you, I will be the one to pick up the pieces off the floor and fixes the puzzle of your broken heart.
I will the maker of your wasted time, and messiah of your lost faith in happiness.
I will be your defender, and I will be the one to pull you to your feet.
And when when you can stand by yourself and remove your mask, I will be the one standing by your side.
Literature
A Photographic Dream
The faded black and white photograph sits idly on the vanity. My exact likeness stares out at me from within the flowered frame. We stare at each other, admiring the intricate feature we share. She seems to understand how lucky I was to inherit such beauty from her, the ideal embodiment of femininity. A sort of arrogance glints in her eyes; her plump lips seem to smirk. Her creamy, alabaster skin glows with confident. She is aloof, to say the least. I know everything about this woman, my grandmother, as well as myself, by this photograph. I am the spitting image of her. I know that I am much more than my sorry excuse of a mother. I know t
Literature
Dreams
A caustically fabricated memory sets a spark in the first exhalation of morning (afternoon?) and she has the urge to cry.
To think that dreams -nightmares- could hold her heart with such terrible claws (but the thoughts of him hold reigns so tightly on her back; he knows many pretty women, and it's only natural to worry after the undressing, the holding hands, the crying in front of him). To think that even sleep, once repose, could beckon tears and heart-shivers and immobility.
She ponders why, all of a sudden, sleep is frightening again.
Perhaps it's the empathy of her nature. She feels heart-wrenching guilt for moments long past; sh
Literature
The Author
Writers paint pictures that painters can't.
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Comments14
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Lovely rythmn to this and the feel is so wonderfully positive despite the subject. Lovely. 