A window beside a child's bed
can be so many things.
It can be a killer of dreams,
a waking light in the darkness,
Or a savior from nightmares,
a torch in the dark dungeons of a haunted castle.
That window beside a child's bed
is so much more than it seems.
It's an escape,
a portal from this world to another,
It's the bars of a cage,
a reminder of seclusion.
This thin sheet of glass next to a child's bed
is as strong as bones.
It traps things inside,
dreams, nightmares

smoke

The window is as strong as glass,
letting nightmares rule, and suffocating dreams, hope; life.
A window beside a child's bed,
it was a killer of dreams,
a savior from nightmares,
an escape,
the bars of a cage.
It was a portal that has taken the child elsewhere,
now this child will never be afraid or alone,
This child will be free,
will be loved,
will be missed;
will be mourned.

That look.
That eye piercing, judgmental, closed expression that leaves you closed out.
She’s already made up her mind. She’s done speaking even before words
were spoken. She’s done. It doesn't matter what you say now, no matter
the white in your words. She’s constructed a story, in that rock thick
head, it’s become a truth. And even if the two of you were to find
some kind of agreement, she will always express doubt. She will
always think you're telling a lie. She'll walk away, ready to tell
the story she’s constructed and place words in your mouth.
And you’ll cry, in the room right above her. You’ll cry in
frustration, and anger, as a distasteful flavor fills your
mouth – the taste of false quotation and fabricated
words. The part that’s going to **** you inside is
the fact that you're going to go back downstairs
and act like nothing ever happened in that room
right above her. If she can’t hear you when you’re
right in front of her, there’s no way she’d hear the sound
of dozens of tears as they roll down your cheek and crash onto
the hardwood floor. A stain that will remain for only a few moments,
then it'll dry out, dead. And you'll put on a façade and agree with her lies
because you never wanted any trouble. You never wanted to see her mad or
disappointed. You'll just agree because you convinced yourself it’s the right thing
to do. Well everytime you lie to yourself, it adds a pebble to your back. You’ll
become a slave to these lies and carry them everywhere. And with each one
you’ll feel more and more alone until you're about to snap. You’ll go to her
for comfort and she'll tell you everything is okay and that this is just
teenage angst. Another lie, placed into your mouth as you agree.
Another pebble. Another back break. Another tear.
But who’s counting? You are. Who cares?
You do. And, in the end,
who’s alone?
You are.

One Rose.
One Rose is beautiful, special, unique.

One bouquet.
One bouquet is overwhelming, unoriginal, common.

One Rose.
One Rose that has been nursed from a seed, watched grow, and given at the perfect time.

One bouquet.
One bouquet that was hastily picked, paid for, and given out of fit.

One Rose.
One Rose is all a person truly needs.

One bouquet.
One bouquet if you haven't found your Rose just yet.

There's a voice on my left,
sweet as syrup and smooth as silk,
it says things I've longed to hear.
But, at the same time,
There's a voice on my right,
painful as a potent poison and raw as rigid razors,
it says things I never wanted to descry.
But is it the angel that whispers
sweet nothings
or is it the devil?
Should I layer myself like a grain of sand in an oyster
or should I dive, head first, into the cold water?

And now, a different voice whispers to me,
sweet and angelic.
It must be an angel, to be so kind and gentle.
This new voice leads me away,
Washing away my layers,
growing closer and closer and closer
to the sand that hides beneath it all.
Are you the devil in disguise
or an angel undercover?
If I reach out, will I be burned?
If I let you hold my heart, will you break it?
So many questions, so many possibilities, so much uncertainty,
surrounding this one voice,
Your voice.

I should feel joy
Yet I feel nothing
I should feel complete
Yet I feel empty
I finally got my revenge
Yet I have no clue what it was for
I should be laughing at the face of my enemy
Yet I have sympathy for my fallen foe
Good has triumphed over evil,
or so I think
Perhaps I was the villain the whole time.
If so do I fix what I have broken?
or do I leave before I make it any worse?