Even the slightest bump of the funny bone can send pain rippling up and down the arm and a string of bawdy expletives rippling off the tongue. So why does hitting this little region of the elbow cause so much discomfort?https://www.livescience.com/
You, by MwsR
There you are, in all your armor
Throwing daggers into open windows.
You care not for settling things
Or giving opinion to the heartache that you bring.
Why must one settle just to have you?
Like you would care, if that could ensue.
I don’t think much of the things that were told
Just your lack of concern and what made you so bold?
Worthless are the words,
Deliberate the actions, all of it absurd!
Spite can be given in foolish attempts
Smothered by someone’s contempt
Would had suited you better to run away
That is how cowards try to evade.
The hurt that you caused sank deep into the fibers
Nothing will ever be able to get those out.
I hope being satisfied made you a hero in your world
Because you can’t be anymore to us.
Your actions have consequences and reactions
Your time without any blame is gone.
Go ahead tell yourself it wasn’t you
But our whole family knows it isn’t true.
Blame another is you want
You’ll be the one who has to live without,
We surely won’t.
The thought of you brings sadness
Hopefully we all can escape this madness!
Hey mister mister,
You definitely are twister
You caused this poor girl to leave home
The rules didn’t apply to you
And for those that laughed
To see such pain
My heart will be done with you.
MwsR 2021 Copyright protected, all rights reservedContinue reading Hey Mister Mister
If hurt had a life of its own
It would have a house with the curtains drawn
Silently it would sit until more hurt came a knocking
Then it would let that hurt come in.
They would share the same couch
Use the same bed
Hurt would make room for its friends.
Meals would definitely be optional
Hurt would not check its mail
It could not stand any more bad news
Weeks would turn into longer
And the hurt would get stronger
It would dominate all around it
No time to ask permission
Hurt just would
Nothing would take as much meaning as hurt
Hurt would send the other feelings away.
If hurt had a life, the one you are responsible for giving it.
Not right, not fair
Have I not always been there?
How come, why is that
You should not treat someone like an old hat.
Whose fault is it
Are you not to blame?
Why must you have to curse my name?
Did you forget it was me
Who loved you unconditionally.
What’s that you whisper
I can not make my feelings any clearer.
Of course, it is mute
I am the cracked flute
Still here but cracked by all your lies
All the deception,
I need a resolution.
Sooner, rather than later
Make me know that I matter
Tell me how important I am
Hurry, the door will slam!
I know how it feels to be scared. I have spent most of my life being scared. I have felt like there was no-one to trust but many to fear. The ones who were suppose to help me and keep me safe, are the main ones responsible for the fear I have inside. I do cope, if you could say that. Sometimes I relive things and sometimes I imagine things . Using different scenarios I will let my own mind move through it all, until I see what lies at the end of that particular scenario. I have always felt like that is what keeps me from totally cracking or falling apart. If somehow I could imagine things and have myself deal with those imaginations, of worse case scenarios, I would be more prepared and equipped to deal with them should they become a reality. I guess.
A lot of things have happened to me that only I know. As is the case with others, I’m sure. I remember lots of things but never really all in one sitting. The remembered parts of my life, come in segments , sometimes at different months, years, or days. Nothing really has to “set them off”. The thoughts of remembering, just happen when they want , usually. I don’t think anyone could really understand the way my life has truly felt for me. I doubt anyone has a decent clue, even. I have talked about things at various times and those listening will sometimes just nod. Sometimes, those listening to my stories, will comment on what I have told them. None listening or commenting really help me to feel better. In fact seeing their expressions make me feel more isolated, more misunderstood. It is a vicious cycle. I want others to know, to hear, to feel what I did, but how can they, really? Is it even possible?
There has always been that voice inside my head that tells me, “Maybe you have made up half of the stuff you think or say has happened.” It eats away at my mind’s sanity. I mean it could be possible, couldn’t it? Then there is the pain and feelings I felt that flood into my everyday life, into my reasonings, my thoughts, my pain. That would have to be real, right? I mean I have seen or read about someone making up things that they truly believe has occurred or been done to them. They believe in what they have said and feel so much, perhaps they have unannounced to them, convinced themselves of something that is erroneous. I have no doubt that our minds are very powerful motivators for things we do and the actions we do as well.
Why was I put in the life I find myself in? Why must I constantly doubt that true love is something I have, will have, or is even meant for me? I constantly doubt the sincerity of people’s actions, and I question their motives. This comes from the fatherly betrayal and from my own mother’s problems with me, and in dealing with her own life. I find it hard to let myself just relax and lean on another person. It is and has always been a long and strenuous journey for me to come to terms with. However, I must keep going through it, trying to understand it, and keep love in my heart. It would be so easy to not care for anyone, or even myself. I must constantly tell myself I am worthy of love, real love. I must also tell myself that there are genuine people out there with genuine feelings for me. I must never stop believing in faith and hope and charity. Never!
My journey is not the most terrible one that has ever occurred. There are people that have experienced extreme treatments and hurts, and have had awful lives, at the hand of another person. I believe each person is different, feels things differently, and deals with things in a fashion that is appropriate for them. For me, my home life,, has it’s share of secrets, heartaches, and sadness. It is not however without good times, happiness, and love. This has always been my own story, my own life. Being Blue has been one of the hardest burden, to bear. I hope that one day I can help others, the way a few have helped me, by telling the story, so many live and know, as well. I hope in sharing my life that others will find the strength and the courage, for whatever battle they find themselves facing.
You held the power once,
The very thing I needed you could not give me.
The power you had was something nightmares were written about.
It’s like you were possessed, definitely obsessed.
The effort you put into being a bad person should have clued you in…
I was absolutely scared of you back then.
Each weekend went the same
You were out to assert your will.
I was an unwilling participant, but it did not matter.
The hurt, the doubt, you cast my way, it crippled me.
It showed me how in my adult world, not to be.
The effort you put into being a bad person should have clued you in…
I used to be absolutely scared of you back then.
Now it seems life has reinvented itself for me.
I am loved by some and that seems to keep me above the pull of your memories.
I receive the love I dreamed of, to have from you back then.
Stronger, I am.
Hurt, I’ll always have.
The effort took for me to be a good person, now, should clue you in…
I am not scared of you anymore, but perhaps you are the one who’s scared, now.