TobiTheGoodGirl

I used to speak in code. When someone deciphered my message, I got married. I find myself speaking in code again, But warning people that I'm doing it. Sabotaging my subconscious attempts at a connection. I still write the opening to stories in my head. They never see paper. And haunt my sleep. My words are my only beacon, But I am so afraid of what others might discover. I have no intention of using words to paint flowers. I'm afraid of what I'll do, Or say, Or even write.

Dear Human, You continue to write in me. You take a pen and mark my pages with memories. Why do you do this? I cannot help you; I cannot accompany you through your life. You will write in me and then what you write will stay hidden beneath my cover. These words do not solve any of your troubles, or make any of your joys greater. Why do you continue to write? I do not care what happened to you on March 16th, be that March 16th in 2002 or March 16th in 2012. I do not care. I do not care what happens from day to day, the world outside which I have not seen in years. I am shut in a drawer in a desk that never changes. I do not know the people w

I. Please don't say those things That say my thoughts are worthless In so many words. II. Please hear me for once. My dignity is cracking Against your voices. III. Please reassure me Mother, brother, father? No. You chuckle instead.

They say that love is made up of nervous glances of running hearts and of butterflies too dazed to know any better - too alive to sleep at all in the stomach. At least, that's what I've been told. My butterflies must have died a long time ago. I don't feel them move for you. Instead, there's warmth, Like liquid sunshine, raining on the space Of my winter shy Snowy soul. And, that down pour still hasn't stopped since the day the butterflies died. Also, my heart can't run anymore. As I know all too well, you've always had control of time when your shadow dusts over mine. So maybe that's why I can hear it stop

Sudden Cruelty: He is a God, or so he believes He judges others and puts them into stereotypes Asian? No life! Hispanic? Brainless! He thinks he has control over his world A delusion which he has never been able to break Me? I'm better than them, I'm smarter... He sits alone in his room, ignoring the emptiness He sits in front of his computer and passes judgement Lol, you're wrong. You're stupid. Everything is stupid! He laughs and smiles at his own cruelty; He feels powerful and most certainly superior to all But in the end, it's just a fantasy isn't it? He curls up in his bed, thinking about tomorrow Here, he's a king, but out