paranoia, this time
what did i do wrong
parents, that's what
they are for
is that all it is to this
unending bleeding stories written
on the worm-eaten woodings
when the stories there are written
and truth’s all forgotten
that the words they speak
they cut so deep
and i am another victim
of gunshots and raging rumblings
how could i crawl up
from the mounds of snow
that has gun casings buried in,
inside a home that hid the sunlight
and robbed the fight
from my fist held tight
old snows melt
from the mountain-side
so why can't i make my way out
even when the trauma reaches the surface.
with my broken nails i dig in through snowy mud
searching for ripped pictures of a home
that should be
struggling to stitch the torn images of parents
who once never were until they were
like my mother trying to glue all the regrets
into a jagged picture of lessons of sea
i try to fix the walls this time and not repaint
and i fail for i wish to burn the house down
but i don't
it's all i has
for it's all my mother has
it's all my father has
once they never were until they were
even so i take the car
with the stacks of the same wood
thrown in the hood
and run
and run
far away
where the sun breaks through
so i try to fade slow
leaving behind the screaming curtains
and The Shinning halls
the mangled bed sheets
and the filing of fear in the cracks in walls
i run without the maps to guide my way
find myself sitting in the boat made of
piles of woods the same
find myself gently rocking with the waves
as the planks fall apart as waning paints
leaving me to drown
leaving the splinters
in my heart and fingers
but i swim, i try to swim
away from the inky black that ushers in
to where the sun bathes my skin
i never was until I am
there's still no travellers diagram.
YOU ARE READING
Aruni
Poetryher name is Aruni. and like the sun, she will rise after the dark and let every sunrise find her different. ・✫・゜・。. poetry tellings of a fictional character that span across the random times of her life. [Readers' discretio...
