My mind hurts

This is a drug. Sculpted by a set of hand cuffs made of plaster.  Not my finest creation, but this is not my finest hour. It sits and bakes in the wake off the addict. Hidden somewhere among the weeds and the trees and the flowers. Only another who suffers could understand it’s power. How it grows and holds. Expanding from the molds which housed it. A plant in the mind of those who know where to look. Where to find such meaningless things in wish filled dreams. Only they can understand. This drug. Sculpted by a set of plasterd handcuffs. This isn’t my finest creation but it only took an hour. I can choose to give it power or I can choose to throw it away. I am the addict who hides. Among the tree and and weeds and thorns. Watching as it expands from the molds I sculpted. I leave meaning in its creations. Define it by wish filled dreams. Only I can understand it. This is a drug.

A/N I can’t sleep again. I can feel the cycle starting. How empty i feel. I am sharing this one ahead of schedule because…well because it makes no sense. And I need to empty my mind right now before everything starts fading again.

A caged soul

I think it is ok to feel. Yet there is no way I will allow myself to.

I hold myself to a different standard. Something not shared by those I love. I think it is ok for others to be open but I will never let myself to conform. Emotions are easier when they are locked in a box. No one is hurt when no one is there. I can show you some expressions but I can make it reach my eyes.

I have been told that I am a liar. That it is best to be truthful. But I am not ready to share that side of me. Probably because I lost the key. I bet that it is someone in my childhood. The one that I talk about with a smile on my face. Look closer you may see some cracks. But not yet, right now I am able to speak. Listen when I say that there is a chance that I will never give in.

I hide my emotions because it keeps them safe. I rather suffer in their place. I rather sit by and watch the emotions and in their eyes and know that they are blessed. They are worth it. They are precious.

I am not and I do not think there is anything that can change that.

A state of emergency

The bugs are back

With their expectations and condemnations

They proclaim as fact,

how my retreating form is more telling than my words

I ignore them as best I can, spray at hand

To wipe them from existence

But they chatter, as they walk across my kitchen counter

Accusing me of all matters of depravity

I am doing the best I can!

But I remain ignorant of the growing hoard

Paper plates and bile play like friends who can not separate

The bugs are back again

Spending their existence, of which I will end, twisting my lips into

Into futile verses of how I am ok