PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

My thoughts are not my own. I don't know who thinks them, but I cannot share them with the entire truth involved. I cannot bring myself to write what I truly think. I sensor. I filter. You are unable to know me because I am unable to know me. My free mind has been caged over the accumulation of times where I'm told, 'something is wrong with you' 'you can't say things like that!' 

My thoughts are not my own. I wish I could grasp them and claim them. They should be mine... But the person who thinks these unacceptable things is not Brenna. Brenna is lost. Buried eternally by the sticky muck that is confusion brought on by sadness. There was a time before when peeps could be heard from her. Often times it was 'save me'. But God forbid it let that happen. It encapsulated her in it's funk. Encased her in it's coffin. Inescapable, impenetrable, suffocating. Brenna is not lost. Brenna is dying. Breath gone, heart on it's last note.

Ignorance, that's what causes them to believe she can maintain life in her grave. They yell to her 'just believe in yourself, you're amazing and people love you!' If she was loved they would climb down into her world, battle the garish, sucubus like monster, and free her from her cacoon. 

My thoughts are not my own. This dark piece was brought to you by someone scared, alone, confused. Someone I am not. Because, inside I am nothing. Empty shell, smashed to sand by the faintest step.

Destruction is approaching "me", I feel it's presence. Inescapable, impenetrable.