I'm still a lost little girl,
a contorted soul.
No matter how open to change I am,
how loving I am
I can never wash the memory.
Like lady Macbeth, there's blood on my hands
And I fear I am becoming what I've done.
And still I hear your voice, which has become my own
You're not beautiful...
No-one wants you.....
I feel it in the moments and it hits me like a wall.
I fight.
But it's a battle, and you disarmed me long ago.
Author notes
It says prewrite, but I wrote it for this contest, just I tried to enter another one, wasn't sure how many I was allowed so it wiped the newness of it when I reposted it. Paaaahh. Blood on my hands is metaphorical in case you were worried, more about the guilt and the self blame I guess.
A contest entry
- Emotional! by Glass Heart.
525 points, ended April 1, 2008, 24 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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Lovely. Thank you and good luck.
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Few are as harsh on us and we often are on ourselves.
Even though we may lose battles, we may still be able to win the war, but like everything it comes at a price.
Until we learn that even though we may be molded by past, we can never change it. We can only use it as a base to head off in new directions, for like the old computer message, garbage in...garbage out. Until we change the input we are giving self, we will always receive the same output, so in end salvation comes not through the hands of others but alas, through those very hands that performed the deeds in the first place. Life is never stationary, we are either moving forward or backward and both directions are arrived at by those choices we make every single waking minute of every day.
Hugs...Eddy
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