Something Of Importance?
I'm going through old school notebooks and wondering where in the hell I found the time to write or draw most of the shit in these things. I mean - there's lots of schoolwork, I mean TONS of it! How in the hell we were actually expected to cram this crap load in our minds is beyond me but wow, I actually did most of it. So, tons of school work but yet tons of my wonderous creations as well. Huh, its funny when you find something that seems like a life time ago but its like opening a brand new door for me, instead of opening a door that was chained and locked away.
I was about 15, maybe 16 years-old when I wrote this.
Something Of Importance?
The wound is still open.
It won't heal over until the infection has left the body.
My wound still bleeds, does yours?
But then again, is there even a wound for the blood to bleed from?
After all, the wound can not be seen on the outside,
And thats only because its buried somewhere deep within,
Where our mortal vision cannot view it.
We can only feel that it is there,
Slowly feeding on the love that was given,
Turning it about and twisting it into something,
Something that can't and never will be recognized again.
At first, I didn't think there could be one and than slowly,
As time went by, it seemed as if the wound was slowly closing,
But yet, there is still something that you are always holding back.
It bugs and it nags at me from all around.
Its at the corner of my eye, always just out of focus,
Slightly blurred but there's still enough focus to know that its there,
Playing one of its favorite games of hide and seek,
And it scratches and it bites,
Tearing away bits and pieces of this wall,
This wall that was only ever built to protect me,
And to give me salvation.
Friendship comes and goes but,
The frienships that actually mean a damn thing,
Those are the one's that we can never let go,
Even through the spilled blood,
And the tears that never seem to stop flowing.