Unorganised whispering

In the making of a scene so wrong, a vivid absence..
Hands that are hidden within the walls of insanity,
Hands that hold children within their reach
And show that the world is a wronging unable of adjustment,

A recollected mind of all the wrong doings in time,
Shown to a child so young and freely flowing into the eyes of youth,
In the corner a weeping that cannot describe a sound,
A confusing line that can only be confusing to one who cannot understand..

A childhood not met or given to a powerless soul,
Shown hatred so young and hurt so much within a short time of life as future unfolds,
The child now seeking pain out, for when she feels the hatred for herself,
She feels her sins are cured and redeemed within her frame…

Wanting for a soul to take a look and give what cannot be given,
See what cannot be seen,
And understand what cannot be understood…
What unlikely wishes she holds, a hope she puts unto them,
So only making herself a hole in which she falls…

As a time of regret sweeps over and a look of hatred does cease,
Indifferent are the pages of a book written by a higher being called God,
A metal that man did find and use in days of time,
But the cold steel is also a helper to a weary wrist,
The crimson tears do want to flow from a child that does creep

For hidden from the eyes that were not shown,
The problems that are within the fragile loner,
They lie so deep even the child cannot find them within herself,
For hands from walls do hold them back inside,

But at the time of unneeded sorrow the hands do let go,
And fall to the ground a child so weary, the blade the only light within,
The darkness laying all around, as the blood flows free to feed the ground,
A cry of unorganised tears do leak, down an ashen face, a weep unseen…