I feel like a broken clock. I always want to move forward but I go 10 minutes back. I hang on the white wall with red dots and tick to the beat of my dead heart. When someone notices I am telling the wrong time they Drop me in the box that Is labeled
Rejects . . .
Then one day they take me out of the box And hang me on the wall again.
Like a broken record they do this sick cycle again and again and again and again . . .
Screaming faces and walking mannequins. They are no longer my parents but concrete walls. -"You told me to work more hours ******!" -"Why do you always work over. I wanted to spend time with you!"
Murmured words and uttered curses. I have never seen inanimate objects show so much emotion. Black and red walls with no portraits has never seemed so appealing. Escape while you still can they whispered to me.
Pressed flowers in books of lore and Dead poems lying on the floor. Small journals of what could have been and Dolls with button eyes and dimpled chins. Unfulfilled art of the child's grin and Dusty love and its unjust end.
Just looked through my bookshelf and this is what I found.