Oh what a life
Such beauty
why look at the sea of green grasses and leaves
each without haste to grow and become
just awaiting for your wandering eyes
they dance in the wind
trying to grasp your attention
the sun shines down to warm you
and embraces like an old friend
the wind comes to cool you
in a peaceful lull it whispers
the sky a striking blue
faint traces of pure white clouds
lethargically passing over head
oh but what you don't understand
is the gift at hand!
please look around
be grateful for that sun
and the wind and all these clouds
and all these green newly sprouted plants
because simply
its all for you
a little gift of peace

Get out of my thoughts
Get out of my mind
I have to forget you
And leave you behind

But every time I see your face
Every time you come close
I'm filled with this awful grace
I try to resist but have no choice

I love you, and I will always do
Although I know you're blind
I know I cannot forget about you
But please get out of my mind

Tortured people tell themselves the past never happened.
They sit and reminisce about memories that they created.

Their hands are brown and worn down,
looking like a sibling of the ground that will eventually be a tomb for their bodies.

The teeth are fake and so are the smiles.
Hair falls off like rusty leaves brushed by a breeze, warning of the death of winter.
Limbs turn into string, ******* hang, and guts grow; like pregnant, stray cats.

Whenever they die, their houses will be eaten by their children, and not even a piece of gristle or a picture frame will be left.

The house will be nothing but a sun-dried ribcage:
a discarded postcard with the address marked out.

The children will sit and talk of their parents, repressing the abuse and the inability to meet expectations.

The children will work in sterile cubicles, thankful that their hands will not be stamped by calluses, yet knowing their fathers would not approve.

The children will open up the dust-blanketed boxes and stare at old family pictures, not able to recognize the people who smile and have perfect posture.

The children will lay in bed with their spouses and say, to no one in particular,
'Why was it never enough?
What did I do?

Was it me?'

The children will be tortured by these words,
by lives that weren't in technicolor,
by the paranoia of being tolerated instead of liked,
by the anxiety that a paid-off house
and nice car couldn't alleviate,
by themselves.

The children will retire and will have realized that they worked their entire lives just to enjoy ten years.
Their hair follicles will let go of strands and locks,
like a dandelion being stripped by the wind.

The enamel on their teeth will corrode and, before long, they will be thankful for the sensitivity of their teeth because the coldness of senior-citizen-discounted ice cream will be one of the few things they will be able to feel, let alone put a genuine smile on their face.

They will sit on their recliners, stare at their keyboard-kissed fingers and tell themselves the past never happened.

Because that's what tortured people do.