Let Go

The tears she cries come from a deep sorrow that wounded her long ago.
She is in pain, but because her spirit is beautiful, sometimes it does not show.
She is an angel, who will transcend and touch the heavens, but she does not yet know.
She has held on for so long, but to heal, she will learn to let go.





Torment Revisited

In pain, the soul wails,
And the depths of her cry out.
The fallacy of normalcy, is no more.
She is tormented, but lucid;
The potency of her agony
Is measured in piecing screams.
It is the wounding of her being;
The severity of agony finally revealed.
It is the culmination of years of pain
And of things unseen.

Cry No More

She dies inside but wants to live.
The purging of years of pain is like giving birth again and again.
In labor she wails, pausing in-between screams to deeply inhale.
Her spirit carries her over peaceful waters, and she will not fail.
She is weary, but her resolve forces her to endure;
The day approaches when she will smile angelically
In the heavenly glow of her beauty and cry no more.

Imminent Destruction

There must be no safe space for them;
they must not be allowed to strike again.
They must be burned in the fire of the pain of their victims,
and have their ashes taken away by the wind.
History must only mention them in the context of, Never Again.
They must be condemned, and the womb they were conceived in.
They must be forced from their secret places in the darkness of the early morning,
and be left as sustenance for ravens, before the appearance of the red sky of the evening.
They must experience one thousand times fold, the torment of their victims;
left to contemplate their fate, shaken, by the sounds of their own breathing.
They will not be mourned in their leaving;
no beautiful floral arrangements;
no carriages with black horses, with blinders waiting;
no tears of elderly women, with silk gloves in black veils grieving.
In their final moments, the terror of their destruction will be upon them.

The Darkness of Secrets

The womb of past secrets is stretched in agony,
longing to give birth to what is long hidden and unspeakable;
but its child is stillborn and unmourned,
because dark whispers do not make it past closed doors,
to tell accounts of what was — and the pain that still lingers.
Vengeance is dreamed of, and always tingling on the tips of the fingers.
The heart refuses to fully heal, until there is a reckoning of monsters.
They can no longer live in hiding, plotting; planning.
They must be drawn out, and utterly rooted out by their victims, limb by limb;
even the blood, bone, and sinew of them must not remain.
Nothing shall be left of them — not even the whispers of their names.
After they inflicted anguish, torment and pain
nothing again, ever again, was the same.

Diary of the Dead

Witness the depths of his agony; hear his weeping.
See him immersed in the throes of his suffering.
Feel the warmth, that he so desperately wished could comfort him.
Touch the tears that fell on his torn adornments.
Write down the utterances that he conveyed in listless moments.
See the illegibility of his handwriting in his last moments,
because he hadn’t slept in days — and was so tired.
Hear him speak of his plight, and how hard he had tried.
Take notice of the dark curtains in the cold room he cried.
Read the torment of the unfinished notes he wrote —
strewn on the bed where he lied.
Witness the gradual stillness of his body
and the stark motionlessness of his eyes.
Hear the piercing screams later that night,
and the constant whispers of why.
See the favorite picture he left on the dresser, of happier times.
Feel the cold raindrops, as he is carried outside.
Speak to the ones who really loved him,
and hear the echoing of his pain in their cries.
See the black veils, and feel the chill of the winds that wail
at the place where he lies.


She is So Tired

Weary and tormented with nothing left to give,
her tears fell on the letter that she neatly folded;
and in that cold room she sat listlessly
closing her eyes after the tears dried,
and she fell asleep for a little while,
awakening to the same thing that for so long she had been fighting;
and to get up, she placed her hand on a worn nightstand,
revealing the many scars on her skin under dim lighting.
And the tears came again, from tired eyes
that were closed so many times in endless praying.
In her frailty, she held onto an unstable cold railing,
in a torn nightgown, walking down the steps to the kitchen;
in tears, she started off with faint words in her whispering—
but then she kept screaming,
all I want to do is live again.

Revive my Heart

You took my once cold heart
And gently wrapped it in your warmth
I had lost faith in love
Because I had been hurt
But you became my saving grace
And I learned to once again embrace
True intimacy
When I began to touch your face
And then the tears streamed

And my soul screamed
As I released emotions from a place
I didn’t know I had within me
Then held you in my embrace
And it was then you told me
What you saw in me
And we wept together
While my spirit poured out
All the love that I had in me
And then I lovingly
Whispered three words to you
In sincerity