I hear music blaring in my ears. My notepad is on my lap. I don't know what to write, because there is so much to write about. People try to talk to me, but I don't listen. I remember the nightmare I had when my father hit me. Then it dawns on me- He doesn't care all that much. It wasn't a nightmare. It wasn't a dream. It was real. He doesn't care. He works all hours in the day then isolates himself on the computer. Why?

My brother is probably the closest thing that I have to a friend who's mentaly stable. And he's not much of a party. He is very rude. That notepad in my lap, I realize something. He's not a friend. He's a bully. I have taken beatings when he's upset. I have taken his groundings at home. I take everything off his shoulders.

I write and write and write. I come up with something, something new. Something unsuspected. I write a poem, called Blind.

Blind:

I don't see anything anymore.

I smile and wave,

I don't see the truth.

Every day, hidden by darkness,

Provides faulse light.

I'm not scared,

Because nothing can hurt me.

Right?

I'm not scared,

Because I'm fine.

Right?

Maybe not.

I don't know the difference

Between friendship and hatred.

Between Care and Hate.

I am truly blind.

I cannot see the truth.

I cannot see what's there.

I am truly blind.

Blind from everything I don't know.

Blind from the things I am told.

Who cares about me?

Who cares about what I go through?

I am so blind,

I no longer know.

With that music, in my ears, with that pain here, I write down my true identity, for no one knows till they read my poetry.

(Reside behind closed doors, for that is all I am good for)

Tags: Mylife Kriss-Chan Truth

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