You know... I really wish I could say that everything will be all right,
But I just can't know that. The only thing that has changed with me
is the fact that I'm too afraid to do anything wrong. I can't just lay in bed
and be ill and hope that people will understand, because I know they won't.
I have experienced the wrath of a person who just doesn't understand, and
I am afraid. Afraid to talk, afraid to express anything but the approved material,
afraid to be anything other than what they think is alright. Every god ****** day
is a struggle to get up and walk around and smile and try to be normal and happy
like they say I should be. I am not normal, I am sick, I am not okay, I am not fit to
survive like this anymore. And the thing is, that probably won't ever change.
The thought that I'll never find any kind of good in this life, with this sickness, this ugly
mental and physical sickness... Makes me pretty **** doubtful that everything will be okay.

Plate glass windows,
they mock your transparency.
Your heartstrings weighed down,
by all that you harbor,
you're stuck in your misery.

Your heart beats in a cacophony
of pushed down feelings
and your cold exterior has left the room freezing.
Below zero. You're arctic.
You'll accept no help, too mellow dramatic.

You speak words of malice,
with a tongue like a blade.

You sicken me.

Continue on in your self destructive ways
and continue on hating me for reasons
you cling to like they'll pull you out of deep waters
when all they'll do is help you drown.

What you see as a life boat, is really the weight in your chest.

The words don't come as easy anymore,
As if the very act of utterance
Has now become a chore.
Words that once slithered
From my mind and from my tongue,
Seem wrapped in insignificance.
Like the vacuous distance
Twixt our planet and our Sun.

Oh yes,
There are enough faint marks
That we can trace constellations
In the quiet of the dark.
Finding meaning that was never there,
Seduced by mediocrity
With just a pinch of natural flair.

I feel the muse has died,
The last ember of a humble
Fire,
Now fuel deprived.
So I shall trawl through the
Musings of others.
To find a spark and kindle
My lovers.
The spoken and written word,
Perhaps entwined
With a musical accord.

Perchance then? If my ego may be silent
Perhaps I could take pen again
Assault the salient!
Then if determinism agrees
I may once more feel the words
Flow through me like the breeze.
I will ink my conscience once more.
Till my mind is left adrift,
Treading water to
Distant shores.