Eacapism

In the quiet corners of my mind, the echoes softly tread,

Footsteps of the memories that fill my soul with dread.

A orchestration of sorrow, written with strands of pain,

Each note a reminder of the tears that fell like rain.

The world outside moves forward, but I am locked in place,

A prisoner of the past, a ghost with no face.

The laughter and the lightness, they seem so far apart,

From the heavy chains of anguish that bind my weary heart.

The shadows stretch before me, long fingers of the night,

They whisper of the torment that stole away the light.

A fortress built from silence, my refuge from the storm,

Where I nurse my tender and crimson wounds, and my fractured self reform.

The words spoken, which gifted me guilt that eats me alive,

Leaving me crying, and seeing the false solution from across the room as I eye my knife.

Within this fortress lacking solitude, I am alone,

For hope is absent, a seedling not grown.

It taunts me of a future where the pain will never subside,

The weakness and agony of a soul that's wishing she had died.

So I hold onto this grief, as I navigate the maze,

Of hope to one day heal, or of finding brighter days.

For though the scars never fade, and the journey is not done,

I hope to not lose the fight to my trauma, and to open my eyes once more to see battles not lost but won.