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Array
(
[sid] => 171397
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => My life
[time] => 2012-03-19 19:38:35
[hometext] => This is about me, just my life for a long time and it still is. I wrote it to get it off my chest.
[bodytext] => I am from the winter snow.. I am from the cold. The place is Indianan, the place I call home. I played outside growing up. Getting mud on my jeans and messing with bugs. Pretending i'm not sick so I can play with my friends and act like I had been fine. With joy and care my mother came out to get me, the fresh scent of grass stained on my jeans. But she didn't mind and brought me inside to get washed up for dinner. It was then that I came thinner holding my breath. The sound of someone coming inside, I knew I had done something wrong, I had lied. The footsteps got closer to me. I ran in my room to hide from my doom. Who was this character I had feared and nearly panicked at the thought of him getting angry? Who was this man that haunted me in my dreams, the one I wet my pants over in my sleep? The person that made me shake, the reason I laid awake. I always locked my door, not wanting to see him anymore. Out of everyone I ever knew, It was my father, the one who talked so highly of himself. The person that kept you wondering what was going on in his mind. The one who would look through my mother’s stuff; trying to find out if she had been lying to him. The father I couldn't trust, I was scared of him because he was dangerous. The agreements my parents would have, I sit at the steps listening to every word my father would scream. Tears flooded in my hazel eyes, I wanted to be lost, put in a place where no one could find me. I wanted to run away and not listen to my mother cry over what my father had to say. I dreamed of growing up so fast and running away. But somehow in my dreams no matter where I was: My father found me and he took me back to that awful place. Without listening to a word I had to say. I screamed and screamed and scratched at his face. I was 4 years old. My father showed me the bad side of the world, how mean people could be. He showed me the side of him I never wanted to see. My father had hurt me, his daughter flesh and blood. So many years had passed, My father had become more of an ass to me. I feared him even more than before. I asked god to take me now or show me what to do, somehow. But he never did. So I gave up on him, like he did me. I became Atheist. Not believing in what my parents had raised me to believe in. Church was just a dreadful place like home. Where I lied and said I was fine. I'm doing swell, how are you? well I hope. The simple conversation’s I had spoken. My words were lies. My life was a lie and I? I was nothing but a child looking for her toy. Little did I know that the toy I was looking for was my joy, happiness, and my dreams. But I never found that toy; instead I wore black clothing and put scars on my wrist. I wanted my life to end: even if it ended like this. It was painful, and the pain lasted a long time. With each passing moment the knife I held was taking what was left of my life. Draining me of my pride and giving me no reason to hide anymore. I wanted it to end; I had nothing to lose and nothing to gain. All I had was pain. I lusted to find my belonging. The scars got bigger; they became so large it was difficult to not wear a jacket, so I could hide them from other people. Did I give a dame? No. I just didn't feel like answering questions and talking about what was no one's business, but mine. So, the years crept around. My knife became my life. The one thing I had thought I wanted was in front of me. It was sharp, it was shiny. It was helping me. It was tempting me with everything it had. It was like the devil on my shoulder had spoken to me, telling me words I have wanted to hear my whole life. The words I could never find, they were all racing through my mind. Do it, Do it. I believe in you. Do it. I'm here for you. I gave you this Knife. God created your life and now he left you to die. But come with me and I'll change everything. Do it. Do it, I believe in you. Do it. I speak the truth. No one else could respect you like I do. They don't know you: like I know you. Do it. Do it, I believe in you. I did as I felt; I did as the voice in my head had told. I did what I knew: I couldn't undo. I took the knife to my wrist, I took it deep. I closed my eyes and winced as it went too far. I dropped the knife; I hung on to my drowsy life. I rested my body back on my bed. It was funny to think back at those years when my father was my biggest fear and now it was my own life. [comments] => 1 [counter] => 121 [topic] => 48 [informant] => Bvbmjgurl14 [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => EmotionalPoetry )
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