| | This was written on this date for a perfect reason with no dispair. Hope.
I hope that as I write this peice on how I feel, how I veiw were I have been put, I shall have my heart put top rest from turmoil. And that I can rest easy this night.
Welcome to my house.
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This house is not a home.
A home does not sink it's very being into your heart and sink fangs so if you struggle, you bleed. This house bleeds black with memories and hatred running deep within my own blood.
This house is stained red to my eyes, small whimpers and fears nestled into every crack and fiber, and the rare, rare memories of goodness are locked away behind a door which only I pass.
The roof, green and sick becuase of all the culture sludge it attempted to keep away from fragile eyes. Also protecting dark secrets and mold and grime kept underneath the roof.
It is a wonder it hasn't fallen yet.
It is a wonder that prying hands from the polluted sky haven't fallen and wrenched this roof away and peeled out those who leave trails of misfortune, slime and hate... behind them.
This home was never safe, for the Devil himself sleeps naught but fourty feet away from my fragile mind. And when he wakes and comes into this house, I do nothing but shake from fear.
To my eyes their bodies are misshappen and grotesque due to pettieness which they hold dear to their souless eyes. The home also I once lived in forced into the being of this one.
The ground is grey with rock, each a time I would love to forget, the grass a refreshing green of innocence which shall soon be cut clean.
Sickness and taint ooze from the foundations of this house. Almost as slow as the stilling of which my heart needs. I do not like to bring those into this house for I do not wish for them to be tainted.
My room, locked and my only safe haven, is not safe. The locks, shiny and clean sparkle with fingerprints of those who have managed to pass into my heart, and make me cry from their indifference.
The SORROW. Let me not forget of the sorrow which I feel at this point. Misshappen demons clutching to my heart and whispering things of what I wish to know nothing of.
Mother, how you have left your daughter to the wolves of the Devil. His arms and fists smashing into her everytime she has done something to displease him.
Father, my father, you who hardly speak, yet I can see a chaste smile on your lips. One which makes me fear I may never be safe from the Devil. Since you never knew, I do not know if you would have kept me safe.
In my mind, I have a tiny home, only big enough for my heart, which is still as fragile as before. God has put me into a situation were I must take every chance. Only now I see I was not ment for this.
This house could never be a home.
It is a sin to speak of the Devil in this house, though he goes by the name of a religion. So misshapen and bent out of shape, he is not a creation of the Devil, he has become the Devil himself.
His mind is so misshapen and distiurbed that it seems as though it can go whichever way. His eyes clouded over, poisoned from drugs and alcohol he keeps in his den.
The Devil mocks and speaks, curses and words both at the same fluency from his lips, which are burned and blackened by hatred and metal problems.
The Devil is quiet rarely.
And when he speaks, my ears sting with blood from my heart. So pure and rich, as it touches the ground, it blackens and dries, fluttering away.
... And I wish for him to be put away, screaming his profanities in a dark room, alone. Barred and caged.
And my guardian comes, one whom may look of a Demon, but has eyes and a heart of crystal. He remains untouched by the Devil's taint.
And he saves me from the taint as well, which always attempts to touch and wither my mind.
Only with my guardian am I safe.
And in him. I find home.
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Copyright 2006 - Anna Kjelde
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| | Posted 12/17/2006 1:09 AM - 2 Views - 0 eProps - 0 comments
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