as she toils through her day,
with out a word or much to say.
Earning her daily bread,
Not a tear does she shed
But her struggle is ever more frequent.
As she was being loyal,
He was causing her turmoil.
Never giving her real love,
She was to blinded to see
All he was did was lie and deceive.
Twisting her mind, getting worse over time.
His games had her going insane.
He blames, so she feels his shame,
the story always ends the same.
As the deception is laid thick
She stood hardened like a brick,
She only saw his beauty
Not the harm he was doing.
Gone for days and she tries not to worry
While he was out with the ones he was persuing.
He stays gone out of spite
her everyday was just another might.
Might he come might he go,
As she pretended not to know.
About the Creator
Tara Bryant {A. Pierce}
writing has always been my way of expressing the things i struggle to talk about. Some times the mind goes to dark places but those dark places can be turned into something extraordinarily beautiful too.
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Strained
Thrown, as if it doesn't hurt, those words that come on a whim and they bruise my skin. You catapult insults, putting holes in my confidence. With out a care your misery is shared. Causing the doubt that takes room from my hope. Leaving me no way out and away from your taunts and shouts. You rip my veil in a grisly show. Bared the broken parts of me, for all to see. Conflicting thoughts at why you make me a victim. Used for your amusement made you my main affliction, what causes your vile vindication. Day by day you target the weak taking their mirth and spreading hurt, the cause and effect run rather deep, another gone to young, taking no blame for causing so much pain, emotionally maimed swallowed by hopeless despair is what he wrote before he hung that rope, that day everything changed because they all sat in silence instead of standing against the violence.
By Tara Bryant {A. Pierce}4 years ago in Poets
Two Wrinkles In Time
It is pointless to run, my darling, because sixty seconds ago, I will kill you. My blade will have sliced reality open right in front of you. It will have first pierced it as it would a bed sheet left hanging to dry, flapping in the wind on a Sunday afternoon. But the metal will have drawn a line in the air that the ghostly tear will have followed. Then I, La Dyablès, machete firmly in hand, will have emerged from what your mind, at the time, could only interpret as the other side of here—whatever that means to you. I know. I have seen that look on the faces of countless unlucky… clients. You will not have been the first nor the last to try and reneg on a riches for soul contract only to present this visage to me when I come to collect.
By Lily Séjor5 days ago in Fiction
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