silent--musician

Writing. It is a beautiful way to communicate. The symbols on paper that somehow mean sounds sounds that make words words that have meaning meaning you can comprehend and read, and know my thought. Writing. It is a wonderful outlet. The feelings and emotions we are allowed to pour out upon a page and release to others, even just to ourselves. How precious is the art of written expression. Writing. Was abused. Let me illustrate to you what writing should be. Open, freeing, expression, passion, opinion, fact, past, present, future, testamony, honesty. Writing. Is not a place for you to take the part of me I put on paper, and judge. Your pl

I made a mistake. One that left me broken and exposed. You see, I forgot to be careful with this old tired heart of mine. I decided to be a bit bare bones to strip away a layer of my past and expose it to someone comfortably someone I should have chosen more carefully. I made a mistake. I let someone I did not know open my life and peek inside. She, of course, assuming I am still the person she does not comprehend for she only saw a glimpse. I only allowed her a moment but it was enough to rattle her ideas of me. I made a mistake. I let someone in who never earned it or invested in me enough. I wanted to try letting ink flow through me hone

Inflection the smallest change in a single word. Volume the level of loudness in those sentences. Emphasis what's most important to communicate. Pronunciation degree of preciseness in slurred or sharp phrases. Tone. All of the above. The dangerous bit. Tone is love, embracing your whispers. Tone is deceit, underlying your advice. Tone is daggers, hidden in your shouting. It may be a trigger. Stabbing memories of bitter times into her mind. Sending out familiar feelings of gentle caresses. Or contradicting with the harsh shock of hateful blows. Tone brings back the meaning behind the words spoken in the past. Words have power. Tone

13 year old me, you have already made so many mistakes, that you've begun to feel the weight of all these choices and how they will define me. You are only thirteen and the world you've seen will haunt me all my life. Too young to do the things you've done. You've lost so much already it's hard to see the dawn. Little One its okay, you'll forgive yourself one day. These are the worst years it gets better. Hey, I'm still here aren't I? And I'm doing alright now. Look at me, I'm not lying. You'll find so much more because of your mistakes. I know you feel vile now and you hide it so well. But you can't hide it from me. I

There's a space in your grasp. I fit perfectly in your embrace. Warm, strong arms surround me. Your arms 'round my shoulders clasped. I don't have to be afraid. Your warm breath tickles my face. You feel like a dream. Sanctuary I had rasped Choking in a dark place. Then there you were to help me. My own strength is waning. By myself I can't last. But you are my guardian, I'm safe. I don't have to fear the night there is morning. I dreamed you carried me home.

Give her back to me. I'm pretty sure I was imagining it. Somewhere in that place of trying to escape the dreams and they just won't let you go completely so they suck you back in. Let her go. Give her back to me. I know you were there and you were trying to pull me out. And I heard some of what you said but it was lost in the dream. I'm so sorry I couldn't distinguish you amongst the chaos. Let her go. Give her back to me. I believed you were a hated person from my night terrors. You said I even accused you of awful things. As I was seeing you as someone else. Let her go. Give her back to me. You were scared for a while. I d

So here's the truth: Frequent nights I'm tormented by horror stories. My subconscious never lets me truly rest. I tried writing them down, searching for closure, but instead they grew in size and intensity. They have a plot, believe it or not. Throughout the past four years, they've told a story. Not always in order. Not always fitting perfectly. But they do. For years I've tried to piece the plot together, claiming it was a book to cover it up. My family doesn't know. Most of my friends are oblivious. I don't want to worry them. Satan attacks me in the night, in my sleep. I had to stop writing them down. I almost encouraged

He walks as one who has never had a true worry or trouble in his life. His elephantine steps fill the space around him. A blithe smile on his face and a general naive optimism announce his presence. She walks as a predator, or prey. Silent, no matter her environment. Her padded steps make not a single noise, her breath not detectable by sound. His arms swing freely by his sides, his very posture proclaims his ease. The cares of life have not broken his stride. They are but frivolity, the worries of a youth. Her back is tense, her pace careful, but with urgency. Every detected motion or sound causing her to stop. Always alert,