Morsels

 

On these lonely tides,

after midnight has been and gone.

I sit in darkness,

just listening to the internal song.

The sounds of my story,

bubbling under the surface.

The pain inside. Did I deserve this?

For wanting to love.

For wanting to live.

For being shy. For being me.

For wanting to give.

Was it all you hoped it would be?

Breaking my will,

making me fall, leaving me still.

Was it worth the pain?

To feel my hope, 

build up

then collapse again.

 

In the twisted vines of history

you find lines of my story.

The hurt, the pain, the betrayal,

all a part of the tale,

tangled in those roots.

I watched my life stolen,

I built four walls

to hide the rest of my loot.

I should have died,

but was saved,

I watched my own colour fade,

my energy drain.

I saw myself in blue shades,

a corpse like stain

on this world of rage.

 

From the strands and threads that spin in the air,

swirling cobwebs of hurt and despair,

I pluck fly sized morsels of my history,

I place them in a notepad, to tell my story.

All the moments I was made to feel bad.

All the lies that were flooding my head.

All the grinding words that you said.

All the ways you twisted the screw.

All the ways I trusted you.

All the ways the world kept me down.

All the times it kicked and kicked,

it thought it had me licked.

but out of the darkness

a beacon was lit,

and I walked,

head held high,

towards it.

 

 

 

 

Thanks for reading

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Kyle