I’m alive though all the years of abuse, but I’ve not been able to truly “LIVE” because my head is full of fog, confused and don’t know who I am. Suffering from anxiety and depression. I live in a prison, in my mind.
I look out the window from above and see others conversing with neighbors, thinking why can’t I be more outgoing? Why can’t I let loose?
These walls I’ve built around me are like a chain around my neck as a dog has around their neck and can only go so far in any direction.
The harmful words from my narcissistic mother for many years has destroyed who I could have been, what I wanted to be, and where I wanted to go.
Those words don’t go away, they never die, and are embedded deep in every fiber of my being. Those words are who I am, what I do and where I go.
That’s my life every day, every second, every minute, every hour.
I graduated with a degree in Library Science and was a Dean’s list student. I hold a copyright at the Library of Congress and am the author of Memories of My Grandfather. I love to write short stories and poetry and enter writing contests. Also, I love to re-purpose old furniture and like to do book art, genealogy and history preservation.I've donated historical items to the Library of Congress, and other state and local libraries history centers and museums. I have a book at https://iucat.iu.edu/catalog/9248091? I also have written for https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caleb_Blood_Smith (scroll down to search for body and external links and I've written and entered there too.)In the winter of 1978 I attended an excavation of President Abraham Lincoln’s former cabinet member, Caleb Blood Smith with my grandfather John Walker, in Connersville, Indiana. Together my grandfather and I wrote “Weird Mystery” about the Smith excavation that is currently in the I.U. Library Stacks in Bloomington, Indiana.
The words flow by In the endless talks In the welcoming and Ascending dusk Knocking on the Emotions binding With the words Can it connect the hearts? Stirring questions For the being Of these words Flying to and fro Did
I believed I was free, Then I learned of norms, Of perceptions about me. Traditions held me back, Where my spirits soared, Turning my soul so black. Love came with shackles, An inheritance of beliefs, Trapped in social tentacles. They
Trapped in a box of vicious cycle, paranoid by his inner guilt, the laughter of darkness is agonizing him. No longer he wants to be alive , fighting his never ending nightmare, he lost his sight of hope, fidgeting to