Here I stand at the top of this hill
Which I once thought was high.
It is nothing but a burial mound
For every instance of my life.
At least I know it will only grow
But it builds me up with
Disturbances and time.
When I lie down
On the treacherous ground,
Whispers grow louder
Louder and louder in my head
Chiding this growing man
Until he goes mad
Until he goes tumbling down
Away from the sounds
Which only grow louder
Louder and louder

the freeze came in the night
    
           it ate the lilies and froze the
                                
                                water in the pond it killed
    
                                                 the limes on my tree
                              
                             ­   now the moss and shrubs

           are matted to the ground like

your ****** hair that day.

[ i am going in the wrong direction].

"survival is an art form"

art forms are survival

survival in art forms

forms of art survive

forms survive in art

this art form is my survival

@journeyofdays

You lit up inside of me
Like a match that wanted to burn
But my heart was already on fire
Creating it's own light.
A light that kept me warm and out of the dark that you once left me in.

No, I didn't need you anymore.

But it sure felt nice to glow with you for a while.

you put me through hell, and expected me to be grateful for it.

"thank you" for tearing me down.

"thank you" for making me feel ***** for everything you did.

I prayed to God like I was guilty of your sin.

I still scrub my hands in scolding showers in all my attempts to feel clean again.

and to think I asked for your forgiveness for all the ways I tried to feel whole again.

go ahead and tell all your friends about how I am such a cold, unfeeling woman.

I've cut ties with everyone I used to call my friends.

the ones who said they loved me, but were nowhere to be found when I needed them.

well, the blind will follow the blind, and that's the way it has always been.