Mary's Voice
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These wounds are not
Wounds you can see
But still
They are inside of me

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So sealed
Only I can see
It’s treachery

Burning my skin so deep
Yearning for a memory to keep

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Show me a sign
And I’ll show you the words
You say it’s benign
I say you’re all absurd

I’m still crying
And so unheard
Living but dying
Like a broken – winged bird

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Trying to find strength
To fly again
Searching for length
To try again


Up and down
Trapping me
At the slightest sound

The little fears
Keep coming around
Followed by tears
Kicking me down

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And no-one
Hears a sound

The tree falls
And I am crippled
The little bird calls
And the drops of blood are trickled


No-one sees at all
It’s just too fickle.
You can’t hear the fall
But I feel the thistle.

And it’s madness.

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Like a wild fire…

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This entry was posted in: Mary's Voice


I am a writer. I am an artist. I love people. And understanding human behavior has become a hobby. It becomes imperative when you're trying to understand your own. I have Borderline Personality Disorder. To me, it means many things. On some days it means the most extraordinary imagination one could have. On other days it means it is the absolute end of the world when that vision gets distorted and dismissed. Sometimes I feel like it is the best part of me and sometimes I feel like I wish I had never been born. Some days it is pure black and some days pure light. I have a daily battle to find my Grey; my middle ground. It is not just a diagnosis. It's a state of mind. But this is not all that I am. I am still discovering myself one wonder at a time.

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