I'm sorry that I annoy you;
I'm sorry that I constantly message you;
I'm sorry that I still love you;
I'm sorry for being me.

I call it my old house-- it stands in the woods with no electricity, and no water.
If you listen carefully enough, you can hear laughter still dancing down the hall
followed by the screaming and fighting.
Every time I go there I see visions of two young girls sledding down the big hill out front, or friends and past friends talking on the front porch illuminated in Christmas lights.
Still I sit in my old room where tapestrys and photographs once lined the walls.
The house where family once lived sits quiet.
And lonely.
The children don't play anymore and my mother doesn't fill the kitchen with scents of dinner and she no longer burns incense.
The flowers don't grow because they are dead.
The windows were left wide open and the beds stripped of their sheets, some of my old things are buried behind my closet door.... like skeletons.

No one will answer the door if you knock because no one is home.

There are just some days when hurt and fear cut deep into your spinal cord and you are left totally paralyzed in despair and hopelessness clawing away at the door you locked yourself behind hoping someone can tear it down and rescue you
But nobody ever comes and you suffocate on the fumes of your gloom the bane of your perseverance is the nagging tempting whisper that
                                          **You
                                                 Are
      ­                                                  Not
           ­                                                    Worth
       ­                                                                 ­    It

You are sun in my sky
The star that shines above
I just want hold your hand
Look deep in your eyes
And never let go
Being the reason you smile
Your beauty sends echo
My heart is wake
Take my hand until there nothing left
Your smile turns  darkness into light
I want break those chains
Take my heart just don't  let go

She's the type of girl,
Who speaks in ink on paper,
Every word a string she twirls
around in lines of endless forever;

She's the type of girl,
Whose gestures are speech,
Her ****** expressions a tell-tale
sign of her being out of reach;

She's the type of girl,
With lips pursed tight,
A hint of smile in one corner
and a kiss hidden in plain sight;

She's the type of girl,
Who wears her heart on her sleeves,
Her soul laid bare for the world
to see as she continues to give;

She's the type of girl,
Who loves with all her might,
Despite the broken pieces
she constantly tries to clumsily fix.

@byizn