She pulled once again, futilely, against the her imprisonment. Days and nights had taken their toll on her, but even with delirium clouding her mind, she fought on, striving for the sweet caress of the moonlight, like a lovers touch, for the soft embrace of a tree, like a mother’s touch, for nature’s touch, for anyone’s touch. She strove for one thing. Freedom.

With blood on my wrists

and tears in my eyes

I struggle and pull to escape my demise.

The chains have bound me,

to the grey-black wall

jagged stones, I hang, can’t fall,

the water in red

the water in white

swirl and combine in my piteous plight.

Everyday her cuts and tears dried, and everyday she wet them anew with her struggling. One could not even call her coherent, but before she fell into the mind-numbing state of hallucination, she instilled one thing her mind. She must get free.

The chains chafe my wrists

and the tears blind my eyes

left here to rot and to feed the flies.

How long she strained, she never knew, but then the day came. Liberation. Someone cut her loose, someone won over the chains. Someone brought her out into the light.

And when I’m free,

the pain won’t go,

but no longer do the chains hold me so.

But after retreating into her mind, she could never fully come back out. A part of her got left behind in the cell amidst the blood and the tears, the red and the white, a part of her was still missing, replaced by something else. Pain. So she searched the place where she lost that part, searched it well. She recreated those painful moments, until they offered her solace, getting her just a small step away from her missing soul, bring her so close, so pain-free…

Jagged edges rip,

free the red

free the pain

free the white

free the grief.

can’t hold it inside

too tight, too small,

of a space to keep,

the red and the white

bottled too deep.

The scars grew numerous, crisscrossing her skin like a roadmap away from pain. X didn’t mark the spot, it never would, not with no many x’s there already. She would never find what she was looking for, but she tried harder.

And the blades cut,

to make it go away, but it won’t,

the hurt does stay.

Tracks from the tears grew on her cheeks, a well-worn path creasing her face. She didn’t need to cry anymore, she reveled in the comfort of her blood… but the tears came anyway, the red and the white mingling on her hands, dropping to the floor, staining her home, staining her life. Staining. The red and the white.

I’m no longer chained to a wall,

but chained to my mind,

a place no-one can find,

and rescue me,

from my fate of

blood on my wrists

and tears in my eyes.

Well there you have it. Something I wrote on the June 27th space in my agenda during a math class. Well the poem anyway. No this isn’t taken from personal experience… but… it is taken from personal fascination. I hope its not too confusing, with the red and the white… I know tears aren’t white, but… it fits better that way. The red and the white…

The red and the white

The red and the

The red and

The red

The

The red and the white.

The blood and the tears.

The red and the white.

The blood on my wrists and the tears in my eyes,

The blood and the tears,

Mingling,

The tears and the blood,

Mingling,

The blood in my eyes and the tears on my wrists,

The blood red sight, and the salt stung wounds,

The blood and the tears

The tears and the blood,

Mingling.

Well what do ya know… another burst of inspiration. That phrase seems to really hit a chord with me, get me thinking…