iblieve
12-04-2003, 01:19 PM
She’s never saw heaven, she dreams of it.
Never worries about hell, living it.
She thought she knew happiness, held the key.
Whispered intimacies from a young boy down the street,
back when promises were easy to believe.
Married young gave up her virginity
to him on her wedding night.
Picture perfect snapshots frozen in time,
magnificent reminders of yesterdays gone by.
Together they grew apart,
each hateful stare growing sharper, piercing.
He sacrificed dreams, dreaming of being with her.
She gave up hope, hoping he’d change
back to the man who lives in shadowed memories.
Someone she thought she loved, before his disease.
He doesn’t see the change in himself,
was a gradual progression,
cause by anger and poverty’s oppression.
Working for nothing and it feeling like less.
Giving his all, getting nothing, living with stress,
bills and garnishment and future subjugation,
no way to break the chains choking him.
Time did a nose dive crashing into futile tomorrows.
His fancies of achieving, until he started believing
he was deceived by the hopes he lived on.
His anger turned inward festering,
then outward in words blistering
the sensitive skin of their love.
And then darker still,
no hope, no dreams
a disease that kills.
She waits for him to leave for work,
taking his pail and shattered-ness.
Her repulsion by his presence accompanies him,
leaving her in loneliness, relief.
Better to be all alone
than with someone you use to love.
Each movement a memory of what was,
longing for what never could be.
When his footsteps recedes into nothingness,
with her young heart aged needlessly,
she takes her wooden box
from the bottom of the closet,
safe from his cold uncaring eyes.
Waiting a moment before opening it,
catching a breath of regret.
Inside is two wrinkled photographs
salvaged from the trash, and a fit of rage.
Sometimes regretting these photographs
was all that she could save.
Tears escape with heartache’s weigh,
falling away from her like yesterday’s dreams
never to return.
She picks up the pictures, someone she barely knew,
a light snuffed out many years too soon,
by darkness in full bloom.
She languished in self-hate for silence that is kept.
Praying in her sleep for vengeance to be dealt.
A knife drawn to slit the throat
of the man that took his life,
cursing herself to be called his wife.
Courage did fail her ever time she tried
to cut away the disease, end his wretched life.
She never spoke the secret, no one ever knew.
Sometimes the truth cut her bleeding heart in two.
She stare at the picture
---remembering---
lost in thought,
----remembering-----
that dreadful sight.
Hearing the baby screaming, suddenly growing quiet.
Walking into the room turning on the light.
Her husbands face enraged, a pillow clutched tight.
Pressed upon her baby’s face,
too late
----- too late
------------too late.
No one asked any questions.
Her distress easy to see, lines of anguish drawn
with misery across her face.
Why she never spoke up, never said a word,
the days that followed lived in a blur.
More than her son died that day,
her hopes, dreams and very soul slipped away
into the abyss of torment,
growing into her own disgrace.
For never telling
about the pillow
covering her babies face.
Tonight was to be the last night of living in hell.
Two empty bottles, full before,
to help her sleep and deal with life,
all empty now, slipping into comfort,
leaving the penumbra her life had become.
The pills meant to ease her pain,
over time,
forever stops
the demons screaming in her mind.
The only way for her to persuade
herself she could be saved,
when illusions fade.
iblieve
Never worries about hell, living it.
She thought she knew happiness, held the key.
Whispered intimacies from a young boy down the street,
back when promises were easy to believe.
Married young gave up her virginity
to him on her wedding night.
Picture perfect snapshots frozen in time,
magnificent reminders of yesterdays gone by.
Together they grew apart,
each hateful stare growing sharper, piercing.
He sacrificed dreams, dreaming of being with her.
She gave up hope, hoping he’d change
back to the man who lives in shadowed memories.
Someone she thought she loved, before his disease.
He doesn’t see the change in himself,
was a gradual progression,
cause by anger and poverty’s oppression.
Working for nothing and it feeling like less.
Giving his all, getting nothing, living with stress,
bills and garnishment and future subjugation,
no way to break the chains choking him.
Time did a nose dive crashing into futile tomorrows.
His fancies of achieving, until he started believing
he was deceived by the hopes he lived on.
His anger turned inward festering,
then outward in words blistering
the sensitive skin of their love.
And then darker still,
no hope, no dreams
a disease that kills.
She waits for him to leave for work,
taking his pail and shattered-ness.
Her repulsion by his presence accompanies him,
leaving her in loneliness, relief.
Better to be all alone
than with someone you use to love.
Each movement a memory of what was,
longing for what never could be.
When his footsteps recedes into nothingness,
with her young heart aged needlessly,
she takes her wooden box
from the bottom of the closet,
safe from his cold uncaring eyes.
Waiting a moment before opening it,
catching a breath of regret.
Inside is two wrinkled photographs
salvaged from the trash, and a fit of rage.
Sometimes regretting these photographs
was all that she could save.
Tears escape with heartache’s weigh,
falling away from her like yesterday’s dreams
never to return.
She picks up the pictures, someone she barely knew,
a light snuffed out many years too soon,
by darkness in full bloom.
She languished in self-hate for silence that is kept.
Praying in her sleep for vengeance to be dealt.
A knife drawn to slit the throat
of the man that took his life,
cursing herself to be called his wife.
Courage did fail her ever time she tried
to cut away the disease, end his wretched life.
She never spoke the secret, no one ever knew.
Sometimes the truth cut her bleeding heart in two.
She stare at the picture
---remembering---
lost in thought,
----remembering-----
that dreadful sight.
Hearing the baby screaming, suddenly growing quiet.
Walking into the room turning on the light.
Her husbands face enraged, a pillow clutched tight.
Pressed upon her baby’s face,
too late
----- too late
------------too late.
No one asked any questions.
Her distress easy to see, lines of anguish drawn
with misery across her face.
Why she never spoke up, never said a word,
the days that followed lived in a blur.
More than her son died that day,
her hopes, dreams and very soul slipped away
into the abyss of torment,
growing into her own disgrace.
For never telling
about the pillow
covering her babies face.
Tonight was to be the last night of living in hell.
Two empty bottles, full before,
to help her sleep and deal with life,
all empty now, slipping into comfort,
leaving the penumbra her life had become.
The pills meant to ease her pain,
over time,
forever stops
the demons screaming in her mind.
The only way for her to persuade
herself she could be saved,
when illusions fade.
iblieve