She stared out the window. She thought for some shred of hope someone would be waving or even acknowledging she was there. They never did. She only watched them leave. Forgetting her name. Promises broken. She was happy, but alone. She turned to an escape and she's pushed down into a tiny box of guilt. A little attention when she smiles, maybe she'd smile more. She's drowning in her tears, trapped in a box of guilt. He loved her. They all loved her. But she's no one to cry on. She's no one to share her happiness with. Possessions and services have labeled her. She's generic. Like anyone else. No longer with a name. Just inserted with some service or gift provider. An "it" rather than a person. She's tired of it. She's tired of writing about journals in which no one ever reads. She's tired of no one being able to understand. She's tired of the fakes who listen, but never seem to care. She's lost her wings for good and fallen into Hell. Whispers of her name float about. Nothing ever good. She stared out the window. Not a mirror. A window to the outside world she could never touch. She's cold and there's no comfort. Promises of remembrance ebb with the pass of time. She's alone again. As always. Sitting writing journal entries and wasting space.
 Made27 · Tue Jun 07, 2005 @ 02:28am · 2 Comments |
