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the rage the torment the anger the pain, the guilt the emptiness still feels the same
wont you just listen
make it all change
my anger is my only source
of driving myself beyond....
the hurt the lies the bitterness the drain, the tears the sadness it all feels the same
cant you just speak
the clearness of your mind
mine's all in pieces
left for you to find....
the smell, the memory the bruises the rain, the fear the darkness it all feels the same
pleas can you do something
im calling out some more
my voice is only silence
when its held on the floor
then once again..
the dread the regret the cold the blame the aches the lonliness it all feels the same
so wont someone help
wont you help me shout
my strength seems hidden
and my time is running out
*a rubbish an d not really a poem just words late at night *
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they say that whatever is written at night, is similar to dreaming.. your brain kinda begins the thinking process that it would any other night whether you are asleep or not. There are days where I stay up late and then start to write. What I read in the morning is not only interesting and unique, but it usually makes a ton of sense, in an interesting kind of way.
I felt all your pathos in there. You moved me. Great outlet of what you were feeling. No rubbish at all! What you said weighed more than some mispelled words for me.
