Stood outside the back window looking up into the pines towering above, the deeper my eyes move the darker it gets out there.
I remember the place she lived, out beyond the pines, the place I spoke of before. Old stories from old places keep trickling through my days now.
I only half remember her face but I remember the whole story.
The things I still can't speak about.
Buried far too deep.
The air I breath here is so much purer than in that place but I still infect it with cigarette after cigarette.
Searching for a way past the pines without getting caught.
I can't take the scratches on my skin anymore, no room for new scars as I'm still plagued by old.
I tried to cut it away but that never worked for me, so under a smoke cloud I sat writing it down in the only way I knew how.
I'm still writing, I'm still trying.
I want to walk through what I see in a hope there may be another outcome now I've made it this far, but fear has always been the beating of me.
Palms empty and no shoes on my feet, tough enough to withstand the distance that I know is between it all.
Black journey, blue eyes and tired,
But still writing, still trying.
Still just about me even though I don't know who or why I am.
Too easy to give in to that as a reason to stop, not good enough again, and again.
Almost made it out.
Darkness draws closer and I think maybe I'll put it off until tomorrow, another avoidance ploy, another excuse.
My skin starts to become wet with either rain or sweat, I'll let you the reader decide this time.
Trying to write it down,
Writing to try and get through it.
I remember the place she lived, out beyond the pines, the place I spoke of before. Old stories from old places keep trickling through my days now.
I only half remember her face but I remember the whole story.
The things I still can't speak about.
Buried far too deep.
The air I breath here is so much purer than in that place but I still infect it with cigarette after cigarette.
Searching for a way past the pines without getting caught.
I can't take the scratches on my skin anymore, no room for new scars as I'm still plagued by old.
I tried to cut it away but that never worked for me, so under a smoke cloud I sat writing it down in the only way I knew how.
I'm still writing, I'm still trying.
I want to walk through what I see in a hope there may be another outcome now I've made it this far, but fear has always been the beating of me.
Palms empty and no shoes on my feet, tough enough to withstand the distance that I know is between it all.
Black journey, blue eyes and tired,
But still writing, still trying.
Still just about me even though I don't know who or why I am.
Too easy to give in to that as a reason to stop, not good enough again, and again.
Almost made it out.
Darkness draws closer and I think maybe I'll put it off until tomorrow, another avoidance ploy, another excuse.
My skin starts to become wet with either rain or sweat, I'll let you the reader decide this time.
Trying to write it down,
Writing to try and get through it.