| Sunday, February 13, 2011
sometimes the pain goes away, but it always come back.
it's a plea, perhaps not that silent anymore,
a plea to be taken away from where you cannot leave.
see the point?
only the surface point.
a wish to live a life not this,
yet this life has been a gift, an opportunity you sometimes wonder how it came.
so you trudge on through the blood and mud,
towards that uncertain hope that one day, there can be a heartfelt smile.
i do think that the demands have lessened over the years.
we cut when we do not have, but still they are not fulfilled.
why so?
silent death. the spirit is being crushed.
i told you, i told you so.
crush the child helpless
the voice so faint crying for help
the only one that can hear it is the suppressor of it,
but if both are the same, what would it mean?
daydreams, you see.
creation of fantasy where it is so similar to reality, but the child is free.
peculiar.
the fantasies used to be so far-fetched, but with each stamp the creativity seems to die.
give me the imagination of the six year old,
who happily wrote a seven page story about bricklands and multicoloured sand when she had not even grasped the concept of paragraphing and skipping lines,
or the other one who dreams,
who still is present but her voice ever so faint.
visitors? i hope not.
those who beg for mercy are ever so foolish, and who are you to give in to that.
who am i? nothing. void.
the purple piggy oinked 6:38 AM
