My past, I can’t leave it. It’s my shadow, my reflection; the voice of my conscious to leave it would be leaving me. Though it haunts me so, it is by which I am defined. A mental finger print which cannot be denied. Though I wish to hide and forget, the past never leaves, and always finds me again. When others look upon my life, they see only the shell of me. A shell which feels to me never to be whole. There’s is a hole in my heart where my childhood once stood, where happiness should be, only a haunting childhood stands. Where love should abide there is only pain, a black hole where fond memories lay slain. Only my eyes portray my sadness, misery, and paralyzing madness, the shell of me is what you see, my past is never shown. I am still but a child, a child in fear. I may never know what it is to love or to live. But as for the real world, it is my everlasting home, my prison, only at the end of my life will I know peace, only then will I be free from my past. Free to be the child, the tortured child who lives inside of me.
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