Painted Paradise.

I mumble, and you speak louder, to tell me to speak up. And I now have to sit and wonder why when I mumble you tell me to speak up, and then cut me off when my voice is raised. I mumble because really, who was listening anyway when I sent my voice away and no one followed its lead to hear what I had to say. So I stopped mumbling and just stayed quiet, engulfing myself in a little world where my mumble could move mountains. This world was vast and yet I stayed in one place, the entrance. Never fully stepping into this new self created world. This placed was painted like a paradise, it wanted so badly to welcome me, but something here still held to me and stopped my feet from ever getting through the door. As the months ticked by I reached for the handle more and more and dreamed of when I finally touched the other side. Looking in through the crack in the door, trying to pull it wide enough to step into this other land. I fought the grip of this place I live as hard as I could manage, and fighting it left me with unforeseen damage in many ways. But now I have removed every bandage that hid those bites and bruises my soul left on itself in those many fits of rage and fights with the grip that forced me to stay. And yes I still mumble, but I no longer see the door, and even if I could I would not need held back anymore because that painted paradise held such darkness underneath, and if my feet had touched that side there would be no more me to mumble, no more me to be, you see that painted paradise is not as pretty as it seems, and it never would be the place that I could rest in peace, not until I’m supposed to, you can’t spend eternity in a painting.