they’re not the type of things that we’d confess—
the ghosts and phantoms lingering from childhood
the far and distant memories repressed.
We cannot see the ways such things affect us
stuck here within the confines of our shells,
nor all the pain that we inflict on others
while we are so caught up inside ourselves.
Like a vampire promising conversion,
seductively they lure us in their ruse—
convincing that we’re special and we’re different
holding sway while they pervert the truth.
Some are strong enough to fight the hunger,
to face head-on the dark side of their soul
while others ruminate and stew in silence
till like the snake, their demons swallow whole.
How sad for those who can’t read the deception,
who do not recognize till it’s too late…
their loved ones watch them drown in hurt and anger
till all that’s left before them is a stranger–
martyred by the fate that they create..
© Ginny Brannan 2023
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Thank you for reading my poetry and sharing your thoughts.