Her scorching scream
Is as silent as death.
Within her conscious
In black and white form.
Fighting the polluted air
But those who cannot hear.
Her throat is bleeding
The harder she tries.
But that is reality, it seems.
You cannot voice everything
You want to express.
You cannot word the feelings
The way it exists within you.
She might not be able to scream
As she would prefer
But she will sigh
Until she can roar
Like the Lioness that she is.
I lay back, close my eyes, and float in the rhythm of my dreams..
And when once my dreams were an escape from reality..
Reality has come to haunt me to my bed,
As it has graved itself at the core of my subconscious.
Now I cannot tell between being awake or asleep..
The pain feels the same in both worlds..
The guilt tastes sour, choking me.
There is no relief, but heightened stress..
Drowning by my own misery, my own history.
Is there a writer out there..
Who could rewrite my yesterdays
And glamour them with sugar-coated lies?
Maybe I could be manipulated that all these dreams and reality
Are the stories of a character in a book..
A sad old dusty book.
That has nothing to do with me.
That I’m just a reader of my story.
Have i lost it.. ?
Insanity could be taken as an excuse.
I could blame all of this on craziness.
But i know its all about my killing conscious not weak mentality.