in my gallery,
lies scars of regret and hate.
nothing but the pain,
resides in my heart.
in my gallery,
there are pictures,
missing they're color,
misbalanced and off-hooked.
in my gallery,
there are painful memories.
none to be remembered.
as well as being forgotten.
in my gallery,
there stands a book,
filled with heartfelt poetry,
unread and critized.
in my gallery,
all my weapons of choice
are lined up.
not for war.
not for an invasion.
but for myself.
in my gallery,
there are words and quotes,
written in my blood.
dripping down to the floor.
in my gallery,
there sits a girl,
that girl mutters words to herself.
most of them are curses,
and most of them are spells.
she'll talk in riddles,
looking at you with ice blue eyes.
she will ask you if you have witnessed
anything depressing.
her tears have dried up,
her emotions all tied up in a knot.
no one to help her
and no one to calm her down.
she sits that and waits,
until the angels come
to take here away
in my gallery,
the girl in the corner,...
is me.