The Picture…

The pictures,
Like fine paper,
With ink prints on it,
Or like light waves,
Travelling to your eyes,
Seeping deep into your eyes,
Right to your brain,
Striking right where your thoughts are,
Crushing memories,
Breaking right to your heart.

The pictures,
Being so simple,
Yet they make your heart pound.

I wonder if these memories are a friend or foe,
When they make my heart cry,
And then I sleep,

Or when I cry,
And I go deep down into a land of dreams,
Far away from the pool of tears,
Where I rule,
But my hands are tied and I cant move myself.

At times I think, does it really matter,
When I hold on to these pictures,
And I feel things,
Like I want to feel them,
Like I voluntarily choose to hold them,
To keep them,

From myself,
From me burning them with my memories,
Like I voluntarily would choose,
To let go.

Like half I am,
Who wants to feel,
And the other half,
Feeling nothing,

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