I want to scream or shout,
anything to help get me out of here.
I can't even seem to leave mentally
a moment never lost in song or dance.
Instead everywhere I look
I find constant reminders
of how I feel.
Books- covered in dust,
longing to be picked up and read.
The old red bike in the shed,
hoping someone will share a beautiful summer day with it.
The little black dress in the back of my closet,
crying for night filled with oohs and aahs
while making heads turn.
But the books they are on my shelf,
the bike-- in my shed
and the dress in my size.
For I am the only one to blame
for leaving these once so prized possessions behind.
Forgetting them, leaving them in the past.
Although never used now,
they serve as the reminders
I dread to face each day.
Jul 6, 2010
Jul 6, 2010 at 7:34 PM UTC
I want to scream or shout,
anything to help get me out of here.
I can't even seem to leave mentally
a moment never lost in song or dance.
Instead everywhere I look
I find constant reminders
of how I feel.
Books- covered in dust,
longing to be picked up and read.
The old red bike in the shed,
hoping someone will share a beautiful summer day with it.
The little black dress in the back of my closet,
crying for night filled with oohs and aahs
while making heads turn.
But the books they are on my shelf,
the bike-- in my shed
and the dress in my size.
For I am the only one to blame
for leaving these once so prized possessions behind.
Forgetting them, leaving them in the past.
Although never used now,
they serve as the reminders
I dread to face each day.