"..the world's on fire,
it's more than I can handle.."
it's more than I can handle.."
Dear lonely isle,
What do you do when you feel like your world is crashing down on you?
What do you do?
When the loneliness of silence stills your lips.
What can be done?
When everything spins out of your control.
The pain of withholding what you know though it eats you up inside.
Like a dirty secret you hide in the closet, or a skeleton you bury under a bush.
Where do you keep your silence?
In your pocket, like spare change, to be handed out to peddlers and grocers.
Or behind the grim vaults of banks and funds?
In the unassailable fortress of your mind, deep and lost in the subconscious.
Or writ on your face, as clear as the stars on a bright night?
How do you keep your silence?
With a knife to mark the place in your heart you scarred to make the pledge.
Or with a string around your finger to remind you what you ought not to tell?
Why do you keep your silence?
Pains that cannot be erased by just words, actions that cannot be forgotten by mere time, or maybe just the fear that echoes in the chasm of your heart.
Numbness.
Eventually you bury what you cannot deal with.
Like a gaping wound salvaged with crude bandages, just to keep the sight of raw flesh and dark blood away.
And with bloodstained hands you deny, you try to wipe the dirt from your once pristine vision.
Hoping that all will be as it once was. That everything is okay.
And that nothing really happened.
That the streaks of blood and dirt that mar your view are nothing but specks of dust.
Denial is nothing but a means to escape. A means to an end you cannot accept.
From the truth you cannot face. From the pain you cannot erase. From the hurt that cannot heal.
love, Joyce.
What do you do when you feel like your world is crashing down on you?
What do you do?
When the loneliness of silence stills your lips.
What can be done?
When everything spins out of your control.
The pain of withholding what you know though it eats you up inside.
Like a dirty secret you hide in the closet, or a skeleton you bury under a bush.
Where do you keep your silence?
In your pocket, like spare change, to be handed out to peddlers and grocers.
Or behind the grim vaults of banks and funds?
In the unassailable fortress of your mind, deep and lost in the subconscious.
Or writ on your face, as clear as the stars on a bright night?
How do you keep your silence?
With a knife to mark the place in your heart you scarred to make the pledge.
Or with a string around your finger to remind you what you ought not to tell?
Why do you keep your silence?
Pains that cannot be erased by just words, actions that cannot be forgotten by mere time, or maybe just the fear that echoes in the chasm of your heart.
Numbness.
Eventually you bury what you cannot deal with.
Like a gaping wound salvaged with crude bandages, just to keep the sight of raw flesh and dark blood away.
And with bloodstained hands you deny, you try to wipe the dirt from your once pristine vision.
Hoping that all will be as it once was. That everything is okay.
And that nothing really happened.
That the streaks of blood and dirt that mar your view are nothing but specks of dust.
Denial is nothing but a means to escape. A means to an end you cannot accept.
From the truth you cannot face. From the pain you cannot erase. From the hurt that cannot heal.
love, Joyce.
