I write so that others need not see,
So that others need not know what lies beneath
This skin, of foul rot and decaying soul,
From the missing heart stone,
From the suffering of so long ago.
I write so that I see myself,
I disassociate much like
A ghost, who looks from afar,
Judging, yet understanding,
Myself, because no one else knows who you are.
I wrote so to let you in,
You who begged for a piece of
This broken heart, this blackened rock,
And in return you promised
A piece of yours, a thousand years under lock.
I wrote for him and Him,
Both of which I was starting
To love, deeply and thoroughly,
Though he never ceased to remind me
That He was more important-- and always will be.
She writes because of joy,
The laughter and the hopes
And dreams that she felt were true,
That this had to be it,
Nothing else would ever do.
She writes because of sorrow,
Of the wrenching of her mistakes
That drove her wild with anger and
Of the hills that rose and dipped,
And of the sunlight that came and went.
He writes so that he can crawl,
Like a bleeding soldier, wounded from war,
To his true love, where her hand is stretched out
Begging for one last kiss, but he refuses
And holds on for as long as he can, even if it hurts.
He writes so that she can see,
The Angel that is docked above in eternity,
To let her see that He has the answer,
To their spilled milk and self lashes,
And the screw ups that haunt their future.
She writes to abuse,
To insult and break down,
Using the Word like a a shield,
To bash the other's raw crown.
She writes of the Scripture,
Like sliding on a shining gown,
Stolen along with three diamonds
Presenting herself in kind.
He writes like a wolf,
Ready to devour,
The food of his sister,
Ignoring the wounded pain in her eyes.
He writes like a fool,
Imbued with the deceit and
Lies, from the demon,
And his servant who stole the diamonds.
They write just to hurt,
They break in just to steal,
Those letters of broken souls,
And attack with a twisted deception
The pain of so long ago.
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