(It is #77) What the hell am I doing? I rarely cuss. I hate it, to be honest. If it leaves my mouth, my patience is fried. I may be there today. I watched a movie early this morning. A sappy love film. "How long have you been married? Do you really even know who …
The athlete, the competitor, flaunter, tease, academic, worker, they all found time to be present. In experiencing life with all these spirits, I learned a great deal about compassion, pain, and cries from within. What others didn't see, I saw magnified.
Conversations cease In quiet ravines And distance closes gaps. I am Pluto. You the sun. To address how far we've run.
Is this a meltdown of sorts? For the first time in my life, I am crying out to myself- not a doctor, not family, not even God. I am internally wailing at myself to wake up, to feel, to live. Yet, I have zero response in me.
There is darkness in information overload, constant debating turned confrontation and reading the barrage of opinions and rude remarks. We listen, unpack, then regurgitate it back to the masses. All the while, filling our thoughts with worldly nonsense in a brain not capable of holding more. Processing is a function that tires you out. If you don't prioritize your ideas, you will lose ground in mental clarity and stability.
Where something beautiful should be, lies a vacant space only filled with the waste of pain. Years of abuse scavenged every last bit of light—a broken mind from a broken heart.
..Beating her in and out.
And there flying free,
Her dreams escape her now.
As morning sun arises,
And newness hollers, "Free!"
Lies the skeleton of survival,
No longer needed or in need.
"I'm doing all I can to get through my own struggle."
We are the voice of insanity- functioning within a cycle of repetitiveness. We flap our little flippers in hopes we never drown by the hand of a child we love.