You sit there
There upon your porch
Staring intently at the horizon, why do you look so sad? Perhaps mad even?
You whisper into the ear of the wind
“I'm not sad nor am I mad, I am merely thinking.”
You are prompted by the inquisitor to say more
For he claims to have an endless amount of sand within his hourglass
So you proceed, hesitantly at first,
“My insecurities compare to a wool blanket draped harshly across my shoulders”
“But the blanket you speak of is so very beautiful.” He says to you within moments
You sit there acknowledging is understandable ignorance to your previous painful experiences
Your eyes flicker to the horizon and back; maybe a different approach will work?
“People's cruelty have cut me in comparison to that of a knife, carving out any bit of confidence I may have been able to salvage presently.”
“But the knife looks so dull, It couldn't have been that bad.” He states confident in the seemingly factual truth
Your eyes glisten with tearful frustration, but you tighten the already knotted ribbon wound around your emotions so you can push forward.
“My dad, I use this term loosely, is the quintessential example of 'actions speak louder than words'.”
“You obtain no physical harm though, shouldn't you be greatful of this?” He says this to you as the small puddle of tears grow twice as large.
Your observed in confusion; all he says is the truth, yet your tears fall harder and faster?
“Oh deary, please do not let the weakness fall between your feet, tell me now and tell me quick what exactly makes you happy?” asking this must be the attempt to create happiness for her again.
“I don't want to talk to you anymore,” She says to him while anger is rolling in waves pushing him further and further away.
He comes to the concrete realization that the door which he was able to crack ever so slightly open is now fastened securely against him.
Yet he watches intently now as he lets waves of his calming energy engulf her
She yawns appreciatively as she lets herself fall quickly into slumber only to dream of her self conscience
Sitting there
There upon the porch
But only to be Whispering her favorite song into the ear of the wind to persuade the door open yet again.