Do you believe in the lies that we painted on these plain white walls? Hand in hand together, like children, drawing scrawls?
When our mothers came too late we picked up the pieces of our past.
We never thought the echo of our laughter would be our last.
When we see the painted walls at which the older we became.
The noise became too much.
The pain became a game.
The lies upon these walls they are painted on with red.
The scrawls symbolize the tears.
The blood the fears we bred.
Welcome to this homely place where nothing can escape.
It's you and me forever.
In this living maskerade.
Do you believe in lies that are painted on these walls?
Painted on as children.
We grew up and now it falls.
The older that we get the more it fades away.
The longer I'm awake.
The more I feel astray.
Believe in what we must.
That I now may see.
That all these scars will heal.
But our wounds were meant to bleed.
Believe.
YOU ARE READING
Poems by Someone With Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. (PTSD.)
PoesiaPoems are by me. Inside this interweb book is an abundance of fear, pain, anger, depression, and emptiness. It is not much, it may not be anything, but it is who I am. You may get to know me, if you really try. Even so, you may read if you'd like. S...
