As he picked up the pencil, and scrawled those angry words. Words full of fear, and hate and shame. Words that mean so much more than their face value. Words that didn't make sense unless you made the attempt to decode them. Feelings I never thought he felt. Things I never thought he'd say. I saw into his soul. I was his soul. Not his whole soul, but a fragment. Every verse, stanza, whatever you wanted to call them, was darker than the last. When he opened be up, he himself opened up as well. I was him, and he was me in a way. The things he has told me, the things he has done, I may not have eyes, but I know the taste of blood, just as he knows the taste of pain and torment. The drops that stain my pages are like old monuments, mementos of those horrible times. The pain I feel is his, and I carry his burden with him. He is mine, and I am his. He is the lead on my pages. Not the pencil's because I am HIS NOTEBOOK!
YOU ARE READING
Things I Know
PoetryThis is a book of poems that I wrote when I was going through a pretty damn tough time, and I showed them to a friend of mine and she said that they were really good. She told me that I should make a book and so I did. I don't think that they are th...
