There has always been a silent disconnect between us.
A misunderstanding, riddled with this and that on what is and what is not.
What is right? Who is wrong?
Threw into something destined by something more than fate.
A piece of paper without a pen.
A blank canvas with no paint.
A light stride of swirls,
Accented by splashed red paint
and blue skies
exists a beautiful painting with a caption
that no one can see.
i share my pain with no one but myself.
he understands who I am, he admires who I am, but he needed his own light.
always distant, but right there when you need her she has a silent tenacity that existed only in my Grandmother.
she never took the time to understand her first child.
she never shared her stories, never admitting her mistakes, she like me shared her pain with no one else.
Moments of happiness.
always overshadowed by the agony of pain
on the borderline of love.
I cried when I saw her smile.
A still shot in which I saw the woman I use to know.
Before life set in.
before I knew what it did.
before the experiences cast down like hard stone.
I cried in front of her last night.
Not because I messed up.
Not because I was hurt.
Not because I knew it would get better by the time I woke up.
I cried because my mother was there. Just like I always wanted her to be.
but she still talked shit tho.