cracked & creaking;
the              old wooden doors: |
haunted by old paint
swing        on haunted hinges;
hang ur ghost here
  beside the absent
portrait      in lead like
old      |    wooden     |     doors:
  
  [where her shadow stays plastered
   still in motion],

her full-length [       ] mirror  
covered     w/          
bloodstained sheet;    [her]      sister's
         blood spatter      
on the old wooden door
to the basement  that's always locked
             but never silent:
The chains have now been broken
From this place of no return
Your voice still echoes to this day
In the corridoors of our minds ,
Destiny now stands in wait
You took away our joy
But now the tide has turned
And your world of hate it ends
Your words they have faded
Along with your demands
Now you have gone the pain will heal ,
Those cells they now are open
We will leave those days behind
You have no hold of  the fears
You created deep inside ,
Your doors have closed for the last time
Freedom is there and we move on
Far away from your prison bars.
That feeling of being set free from oppression
In its many forms .
David Apr 15
I can see the street lights, even now
glowing, hazy yellows against the snow
and how
flakes would pass from laden grey skies
to melt on my palms, oh wondrous eyes !

And the churches warm sandstone
looked quite frigid at night, 'gainst
snow heavy tombstones, to a child
such a fright

A spire piercing heaven, in the still
winters lung
behind oak heavy doors stood
parishioners, sung
hymns to almighty, a god of above
In windows lights sparkled of Christmas,
trees stood

How silently night became, my nose pressed
so cold on thin windows pane
Not a movement just stillness
but for the falling of snow
'tis a memory of mine
of so long ago
haley Jan 19
i am running out of
air
i am running out of
scrapes on my knees
running out of
new corners to cross
in this neighborhood
we,
we are growing up in the same houses
with the same curtain of trees draping
their limbs over our windowsills
we are sleeping in the same bedsheets
wrinkled from the imperative
tossing and turning
of adolescents.

we inflate our chests
and float away like red balloons
a freckle in the pale complexion of the sky
for this love affair with the pavement
has lost its edge
this slipping on
slimy banana peels
has stabilized

we have bitten and scratched and stained
the doors of your fingers
studied every trail of your fingerprints
i have grown older in the palm of your hand
your fists raised to the sky
it is time for you to open them.
AS Jan 24
It’s all about the mask

Keeping the image all regal and sublime

Oh, thou holy

Superior against the rest

Even though underneath your life is a full on mess.

Feeling of grandiose over those in your care.

Image of loving to those who stare.

Behind the closed doors.

Emotional stunted and reliant on the support of a child.

Paddies and screaming to those who demand stable care.

Lady of burden only fair to be your middle name.

Problems of the world forced onto young shoulders as if they were

much older.

Feelings of defeat when they need to come and speak.

Only you can have problems or need care.

Then show off to the world a mother who embodies tender

attention.

Jackal and Hyde, the importance of protecting that prodigal pride.

No room for another to come and confide.

Image is everything,

Ego is life.

No matter what the danger or risk, and the monster you miss slip

by.

Keep silent, keep good and marvel at her mask.

Rewarded with love and chance of being the golden child.

With many secrets I need to hide, just to maintain her precious

beloved pride.



© 2018
Abigail Sheard
Below is a link to how I moved to thriving, instead of trying to survive each day:

https://www.reddit.com/r/ThrivingNarcAbuse/comments/8ydqko/the_journey_to_thriving_an_honest_and_hopeful/
Sunken eyes, broken thoughts,
air with difficulty enters the lungs.
Dry mouth, lacrimation of no purpose,
the pillow full of nails  she is resting upon.

The body, a ship stricken by a wave war.
Slow disintegration,
remains are battling the seven seas of sorrow.

Like a painting  uncovered,
black sheets cover the rays of the sun
from the soul.

Resident of a lucid dream,
mumbling to the wind that blows
regrets down to the river
between Hypnos and the Underworld,
to carry a message to the hearts
with locked doors.

A message of no words
but incoherent perceptions,
lost unknown connections
and strangled hopes.
elaine May 12
Did you really mean those lovely things you told me?
or were you just  that experienced with the ways of a women’s heart you could just easily walk in its doors and shatter it,
all while leaving her spellbound?
Did you know you create hurricanes inside me, leaving my world trapped and unprepared for a storm that would never go away?

Did you know that I fell in love with you moments after meeting you?
Or even that I haven’t stopped?

I wonder about you,
how you will be,
I wonder how your day was and if your alright.
or if she will treat you right.
Or even if you will hold her tight and protect her,
hold your promises true,
and make her the happiest she’s ever been.
Or will you do what you do best,
and create fires everywhere you go,
soon destroying everyone just like you destroyed me.
volcanos rise from ocean floors
Atlantic's Azores archipelago lies
300 leagues from anywhere
Henry the Navigator claims
and settles in past's mist lost
Terceira's villages welcome you

more cattle than people roam
make traffic jams at milking
eat bread, wine, and cheese;
swim in pirate's coves seeking
golden Spanish galleons sailing
trade winds to Canary's Islands

seething bull corded to six men
loud horn blows, bravado-filled men
dart from sharp, polished horns
the bull turns on its handlers
distracted by scarves and umbrellas
women and children cheer safely
barricaded behind wooden doors
and stone walls four feet high
a nautical league is about 3.5 miles
tourada à corda = bull on a rope
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