It was ugly.
The most hideous feeling that are hidden behind the hands are the ones that are covered in bruises and scars.
You wonder, when are they going to stop?
When does this ever stop?
The feeling flooding like a ocean attacking and suffocating any hope that occur behind the scenes.
Behind locked doors.
The screams of help is a broken vinyl.
It seemed like if you were loud enough, someone could stop this.
But, you can't fix something broken.
Sure it can play all the right tunes, but it would never sound the same.
Which leaves you alone, with dried tears and blood that caress the pale pores.
Clogging the ever lasting soul, you call a home.
This was home.
Behind locked doors.
With no one to save you.
You begin to think, this is your fault.
And it is your fault.
YOU ARE READING
Out Of Order
PoetryPerturbed. Anxiety awaits those who can't distinguish between actions or emotions, therefore never implying what she thought was important. Animosity. Apart from her balancing on the tight rope, resentment tipped her over and down she goes. Deep int...
