Heres a poem i wrote. Just how im feeling write now.
Strange how sometimes the quiet whispers,
that are trapped between floors find their way to my ears.
And the memory takes hold.
These whispers that try to tempt me
into listening to their cruel and unjust 'truths',
are fabricated by faded faces
Who never even knew that I could hold my own?
I could be my own.
And I didn't need them and their false torture,
or their false friendship to make me whole.
They never took the time like most people.
Why then do I find myself
thinking about the past so much today?
those negative dark spots of past?
those billowing smoking black clouds
of uncertain unhappiness?
some say it's the weather. Current Mood: anxious