talking limbs

Stories from the back bench, what wouldn't I do to compensate, bottle up and take up the pen. Speak the life of someone else. The stories from the back bench pierce the protection, wipe the make up off. They don't come haunting 'cos they've never left in the first place. Denied them as much as I tamed the wildest dreams. The stories of pain and desillusioned aspirations to Good, teamed up, somewhere, hidden behind the bed, ready to bounce and answer the call of revenge.
the stories from the back bench are written on the surface. And it's the look of the outside that speaks them to me. Inside.
Woman does as woman must. Listen & comfort.
If only ears could speak..