|
Mary's Story and Canvas....Poems
MARY'S STORY
** note** Mary may be a real person somewhere, but in this poem she is a figment of me imagination. She is not based of anyone I know; none of the people in this poem are. This is a completely made up "story" but it has an important message. Enjoy!**
She sits there draining
Her own blood.
Nothing new,
Just same old stuff.
She feels the pain,
The break in skin.
But no longer does she cry;
Only smiles at sin.
The taste of blood
Fills her mouth.
Swallowing the misery
But somehow it doesn't go away.
So she keeps cutting deeper,
Hoping the floor will bleed.
Splattered on the walls,
Dripping from the fan,
Her heart is laying on the floor
And she just stands staring.
So she finally accomplished it?
Ripping out her pain?
The knife still in her hand,
She collapses near the beating, dieing thing.
She stabs it once more and cries,
"This is for him."
No one hear her suffering,
No one really cared.
Not her friends or teachers
When she came 'round bruised.
She just couldn't stand it;
Her parents didn't know what to do.
They tried to help her through it,
But it just wasn't enough.
The reminders on her skin
Of what he did to her
She couldn't stand looking at them,
She had to get away.
She so tore her heart out,
To erase the pain.
They found her the next morning,
Laying on the floor.
Her was no longer beating;
Had settled it's last score.
Little did she know,
That he had done the same.
She didn't need to do it;
He had gone away.
For he regretted
What he had done to her.
Went out and bought a gun,
Went home and took his life.
They were buried far away
From the others soul.
One a harming curse,
The other was so full.
All her parents could think to say
Was that she didn't have to do it.
They could have made it better;
He would have went away.
They couldn't bring their daughter back,
So they made a vow that night.
They would stop abuse
Before it took place.
So when you see someone hurting,
Remember you need to call.
For they don't need to end like Mary,
On the bedroom floor
CANVAS
Painted on a canvas,
The colours bright and bold.
The contrast is a miracle
For all to behold.
In all my words and sketches,
The magick is seen.
Then why when it's spoken,
I just want to scream?
Nothing comes out right,
The colours flash before my eyes.
I wait for death to take me,
But my grasp on life is strong.
Loving what I cannot;
Everlasting loss.
I can be true to me,
But why not to them?
Why do I hide it
When I say it doesn't hurt me.?
Why do I lie
Just to fall on my own?
Do they even bother,
To see behind my eyes?
Or is it just easier,
To live in disguise?
I'm painted on a canvas
For the world to see.
The only problem is
They aren't seeing me.
|
