Prisoner All The Same
She bangs against the door, Until her hands become slick, With her own blood. Dark room and black windows. No voices except the ones, That live inside her head. Hair tangled, clothes dirty. No mirror here, No one to say she's beautiful. Not that they ever did. The hurt burn deeps, When your alone in a world of people. There's no one to lean on, When you feel weak. No one to hold you when you cry. No she is not a prisoner, Of some evil demon. This is how she feels inside. When she is with you. Why does she have to beg, For your embrace. Written February 19th, 2002 © on Feb 19 2002 05:08 AM PST, Phyllis Thompson 18 • 0 • 1
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"She bangs against the door,..."