They're stained with screams.
Covered in shattered dreams.
And painted with failed schemes.
I've even had the time,
to add the story of mine,
written perfectly amongst the lines.
If you listen close enough,
you hear the shrieks:
Of those come; Gone;
Those lost in the middle,
and those devoured alive.
Hands..
Clawing to get out.
Bodies..
Trying to push through.
To be free.
Memories stained red,
My mind fades to black.
All the things I love,
All the things I lack.
Remnants of frustrations;
Dents across the walls.
Impaired a few windows,
before entering the hall.
Knives in hands,
give this a shot.
Slice open the walls,
or let them all rot?