Writing

Laying in bed staring at the ceiling,

the only thing left in me is this numb feeling.

I search for a grasp,

a grip,

a clasp,

of anything I could hold,

but everything is gone,

I'm empty.

I find comfort in the shadows,

they hold me while I fight my battles.

Arrows fly and crash against the dark figures,

they hold me even when I pull the trigger.

The House on the hill waits for no man in the window.

the maniacal screams that echo from the basement 

chills a daughter to the bone marrow.

Listen to the soft pattern 

of rain drops falling onto the window pane 

creating streams of water 

that all end in a small puddle beneath the sill. 

Feel the softness of a blanket 

Today I am afraid 
For today my life 
Lies in the hands of people 
Who see me as a monster 
A destroyer 

When I was younger and I would watch movies,

The end of them would always linger.

Like a taste;

Too sour for the bright of mankind,