Mar 2014
And as I walk away in that familiar rain I feel as though I am floating on a dark cloud accompanied by erie silent screams ringing loud. I want the water to douse me of my imperfections but my imperfections are just that of the falling Water. And as I think of you and your skin close to mine I realized that this lie has taken something special from my heart this time.
The pavement is cold and dark shadows induce thoughts that cause bliss to turn from amber to black and not even cigarettes can help me get my dignity back. That tiny tube of rolled hope that's hits heavy on lungs like the dry heaving of guilt sitting on shoulders before relaxed.
And in my mind the clock ticks with silent echoes of aches and hidden secrets. Feeling helpless of my own discreet indiscretions on sheets of passions burning crimson red like a letter stamped on smooth with devastating costs at best.
I am traveling in the valleys of my mind with only forks in the road and destinies map has become blurred with perceptions of flashing cars and road trips at large.
Thinking of my old soul is like missing a step in the dark with anticipated acceptance that false awareness is still marked. And as I look down that familiar road I see only streetlights paving the way to clichés home embarked.
This routine has my mind high like always and honesty has become two faced. Is this idea deceptive of my own memories or have I built tiny walls around this beating cause of my pulse to race?
Once again I am captured in bed looking through broken blinds reminiscing about newly discovered cluttered minds. But guilt and satisfaction are becoming a common bind.
And as god as my whiteness let me accept this sign. That when anticipating hope has no faith to bestow, it's time to continue on making decisions judgement of others chose.
Emily A. Grande
The pavement is cold and dark shadows induce thoughts that cause bliss to turn from amber to black and not even cigarettes can help me get my dignity back. That tiny tube of rolled hope that's hits heavy on lungs like the dry heaving of guilt sitting on shoulders before relaxed.
And in my mind the clock ticks with silent echoes of aches and hidden secrets. Feeling helpless of my own discreet indiscretions on sheets of passions burning crimson red like a letter stamped on smooth with devastating costs at best.
I am traveling in the valleys of my mind with only forks in the road and destinies map has become blurred with perceptions of flashing cars and road trips at large.
Thinking of my old soul is like missing a step in the dark with anticipated acceptance that false awareness is still marked. And as I look down that familiar road I see only streetlights paving the way to clichés home embarked.
This routine has my mind high like always and honesty has become two faced. Is this idea deceptive of my own memories or have I built tiny walls around this beating cause of my pulse to race?
Once again I am captured in bed looking through broken blinds reminiscing about newly discovered cluttered minds. But guilt and satisfaction are becoming a common bind.
And as god as my whiteness let me accept this sign. That when anticipating hope has no faith to bestow, it's time to continue on making decisions judgement of others chose.
Emily A. Grande
