An Angel In Disguise
She becomes her greatest apology

She tirelessly woke to a mess every Sunday morning
It seems her demons partied late into Saturday night,
She would tiptoe around her demons as they slept
Cleaning and sorting until her home was put to right.
***
Her demons would carelessly leave things lying around
Knowing she would sort it all out, time and time again,
She never chastised them, understanding their needs
As they let off steam, fighting their anguish and pain.
***
“At times it is better to hide things in their shadows
As it pains me to sort through memories in the daylight,”
I have heard her mutter this under her breathe so often
Although I never truly understand her battle and fight.
***
I wonder how such an amazing creature became tormented
As she loves with her entire soul, body and pure heart,
Does she not realise that she is an angel in disguise
A blessing of love, light, compassion, a real sweetheart?
***
How is it that angels are allowed to fly close to the underworld
Letting the darkness creep closer and blacken her wings,
Why is it she gives so much, so often, to her dark demons
So she becomes her greatest apology, as they pull her strings.
***
Is it any wonder that she does not allow anyone to get close
Not if they are those special few that will make her feel,
It is understandable that she often hides in their shadows
Where her love, her emotions, the demons will conceal.
***
I understand why she wishes to hide her utmost feelings
Because with these comes the abhorrent self destruction,
She cannot have one without the other, as she wisely knows
For it was from an early age her pain made an induction.
***
I am in awe of her strength, her resilience, her power
As she fights her way through life, her survival indisputable,
I watch her battle her demons, putting them in their place
Whilst holding her head high, she is just so very beautiful.
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Originally posted on Medium
About the Creator
Colleen Millsteed
My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.
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