And I remember this night like the back of my hand
You told me you loved me, you promised we'd stand,
That you'd seal your promise with a wedding band
That you'll love me like no one else ever can.
But where are the promises? Invisible they seem
And after two years they all feel like a dream
I struggle to hope but the pain is too keen
And the wrath of my father still keeps you from me.
YOU ARE READING
The Art of Confusion
PoetryDiana Miller is schizophrenic...or at least she thinks so. She has never been clinically diagnosed because her father believes that mental illness is demon possession, and she knows he would never take her to a psychiatrist. To cope with her inner c...
