skyeconnelly

Here's to a moment of nostalgia. I'm skimming through pages of ballet terminology and admiring the pictures associated with the movements. I find myself drawn to the faces of each ballerina. Some seem to be in no pain, as though the movement they are captured creating is second nature. Others don't hide the pain quite so well, and my heart reaches out to them. I long to tell them that it's okay not to be prefect, and that all that matters is the beauty of the art they create and the story they portray. But they know better. I know better. My brain is suddenly racked with invading memories I've kept stashed away and hidden for so long. As pai

The streetlights pass by in a haze one after the next Like military drones standing reluctantly in line preparing to salute My eyes are glued to the road yet they reflect nothing but a hollow void; A seemingly more desirable destination than my own chamber of dread I'm miles away in that bastard land of make-believe Where I won't have to drink to numb the pain corroding my heart Won't have to sedate my pounding brain and crumbling sense of self A place where the torment just sort of... ..drifts away with the burning clouds at sunset Then all too quickly the sound of metal crushing, twisting, contorting Pain and despair mixed with Ja