(TW CH-SA) Pretty Pretty Polly (P2) A Chilhood

 

My Brother went away, The old man came. 

My Brother looked for me, I was locked away.

In the Deep Dark basement, I heard Him every summer.


With my Assailant, He never had a clue, 

Of what that Man would do,

In the Deep Dark basement.


I got older and He got sicker,

I had to learn to forgive.


Then the Man went mental and shot Me, 

Sure it was a shock to Me as I meet My Brother again.


Now I go back to the Dark.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

how i function how i feel

                                                                   How I Feel                                                                    How I Function   Freedom, How do You explain it? Is Freedom like being a bird soaring in the sky high above? An eagle perhaps? Safety, What does it mean to feel Safe, truly safe? Is it a soft blanket and a lullaby to dull the sounds of a roaring storm? I wish i could truly know both but it seems I am more a Broken Machine rather than a Person that thinks and feels. I suppose it is more difficult knowing that my physical scars are more self induced than my mental ones. I find it unusual how My physical scars don't affect me as much as my mental ones, How do I function when I have lost the manual? Will the ghost of my  stolen innocence ever really go away? Will the memories ever come to mind so that I may finally lay this hidden truama to rest? Or will the ghost in my mind be there for the rest of my existance? Will the whispers of not being
Read more

Strong Wind

  anxiety is like a strong wind, it also makes you overthink, This can lead to drugs and drink and throwing up in a random kitchen sink. Instead of letting this strong wind contol you,  fly away on a pretty rainbow to a place  with alot of snow so you can make a  snowman friend. listen to the end take a breathe and don't let anxiety  drive you round the bend
Read more

The best writers

 The best writers they greet death, pain, suffering,hell,hate,love,rage,sadness,purity. The best writers greet hurt, agony, joy. A tempest of emotion not leaving out the motion of jumping off a bridge, the unmistakeable itch of being alone. Suicidal ideation.  You call me an artist I call myself worthless. You call me a beauty but if anything I am broken. Scribbling down these notes ...these stories these poems perhaps you'd pay more attention if it was drawn into my arm. My blade sharp as my mind but my heart dull like a contract with god just went null and the devil took over.  Feels like I was ran over but wait no...stop it's just these demons in my mind. The sly smile of a foe I can't distinguish the one of a friend. I am at my wit's end.  Yet You don't see it or hear it I call out my face a picture from a horror movie or more like one of being tortured. I am in a cell I cannot breathe you are stood outside but I hold the key. Can you not see I can not unlock it
Read more