Gone

writing, seeing

behind teary eyes:

lies

in disguise;

love and hate,

war, we paint

a picture, of what we want

not what we need

and we pray, each and every day

that they’ll stay,

but they don’t;

they won’t;

they can’t

they sift,

through our fingers,

but they linger

in the crevices of our hands.

they demand:

love and affection;

mass destruction;

corruption

of the mind;

the body;

the soul.

they linger

in your bones;

hollow;

an emptiness

you cannot disguise, with lies.

empty;

a dot;

a blotch:

small and insignificant, issues,

masked with tissues, to take away

the pain;

the suffering;

the memories

but they stay, and won’t go away;

not today, not any day. so you lay

in bed, and wonder

how it got this way:

to the point

where you can’t speak;

can’t hear;

can’t listen

to anything but the melody:

silence;

loud as sirens;

full of violence;

absolutely still, and your will slips away,

so you say,

“it’s a dream”

though it seems;

unreal.

This poem is about: 
Me

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