Before I write anything, I'd like everyone to know if I use any work or piece taken from the web to express my "ideas," that I will always give credit and recognition to the author or person who has helped me with their contribution to my work.
This one goes out to @asantésaunders
Rarely I count myself as an individual. I'm always working to better everyone else but never myself. Rarely I look towards myself, under a fake visage I look to uphold other people and keep them cheerful but deep inside I know why I disregard myself.
I left myself open to be broken, left the door open so they'd see the run down room trying to be kept clean and tidy. While in the corner just like a doll long forgotten dusty and old. Worn down. Crushed by deafening voices telling me what's right but only my heart can tell what's wrong. But maybe there's hope.
Long before I had let myself fall, the pain had always been understandable. So the mask stays on and no matter how many faces I go and tell I can't be one of them to find myself. I can only wait for My chance to tell itself, for the mirror to expose me. My true self.
About the Creator
Amie Lockhart
To start with I know everyone has a story, my story... well I'm hoping it turns out interesting and I hope with vocal I get to share it without the concerns that interrupt me at home. Let's see what type of story you get to see in me.
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More stories from Amie Lockhart and writers in Poets and other communities.
I Forget
Maybe it's because I let my thoughts drift off into the unknown. Leaving my thoughts, my body, and waking up dazed. Maybe it's because I've forgotten who I am. Sometimes I forget. I forget the things that made me stronger or what's made me, me. I forget what I've been through that's made me now today. Yet still I look back saying, what was yesterday? Is it because there are so many distractions in this world to keep me from remembering. Remembering the purpose I'm supposed to serve. What if even then my purpose was altered. Do I expect to remember when reality doesn't make sense. Sometimes I forget for a second who I am, that I am human and there is a world amidst me. As if a hole letting water leak through. This is what it feels like to forget, not really hopelessness but confusion. A fuzziness that covers your thoughts making everything vague. Sometimes I forget but sometimes I wish I wouldn't forget.
By Amie Lockhart5 years ago in Poets
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson2 days ago in Fiction
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