Author Topic: Speaking of Screaming  (Read 404 times)

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Offline Anonymous

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Speaking of Screaming
« on: January 31, 2005, 06:45:00 AM »
I can still hear children screaming.  When I wake up in the early morning hours. and I try to go back to sleep, just as I start to drop off, I hear them.   Well, really, I don't hear the screams, they are more like strong memories.  I hate it.  Sometimes when I dream, I can hear myself screaming.  I remember being sat on.  It hurt bad. 1st phase broke me; I've never been the same...
« Last Edit: December 31, 1969, 07:00:00 PM by Guest »

Offline Anonymous

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Speaking of Screaming
« Reply #1 on: January 31, 2005, 07:37:00 AM »
I can 'relate" to that.Hey!Heres a good Idea,lets make THEM scream (THEM=your abusers).
« Last Edit: December 31, 1969, 07:00:00 PM by Guest »

Offline Anonymous

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Speaking of Screaming
« Reply #2 on: January 31, 2005, 08:28:00 PM »
Quote
On 2005-01-31 03:45:00, Anonymous wrote:

"I can still hear children screaming.  When I wake up in the early morning hours. and I try to go back to sleep, just as I start to drop off, I hear them.   Well, really, I don't hear the screams, they are more like strong memories.  I hate it.  Sometimes when I dream, I can hear myself screaming.  I remember being sat on.  It hurt bad. 1st phase broke me; I've never been the same..."


 Yeah, me neither.
« Last Edit: December 31, 1969, 07:00:00 PM by Guest »

Offline mental torture made me li

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Speaking of Screaming
« Reply #3 on: February 01, 2005, 12:31:00 AM »
Sitting duck

I wish I knew Beck.
Maybe he would want to help.
Maybe he could go back to 1986.

I knew that grass then like I haint been able to know it since
The world moved away from me

I can?t remember anything, the soft light up the path by xxx?s house. The black asphalt in the neighborhoods. I can see the parking lot at the high school. Where did I go. I can?t remember.

John Wxxxx. Knees, laurie Anderson, nothing on top but a bucket and a mop matt bxxxx,
Sweatshirt in the tunnel what did I know of this world? you left me you did not warn me you went away,

Now the halls, the intake rooms. Dark orange rugs, the papers on her deask. The chairs in a curcle in her office. Joy Margolis. My blue duffel bag. Ten dollars of pot in it. My soul drifts out of my throat,
« Last Edit: December 31, 1969, 07:00:00 PM by Guest »