I haven’t trimmed my beard in a long time.
It hardly itches, but I feel as if it has started to become saturated in my own bleakness.
This facial hair is absurd and rough. It makes me feel like the scummy man that I’ve become. All I’ve done is become sick.
I’ve sat in this room, and drenched these four walls with my whispered agony.
I’ve lost so much of my talent with these words, with this dream I held of writing a symphony, to show someone what love sounded like if you read it out loud would be amazing, but I’ve failed so many times.
I’ve reached this place, of uninspired self-inflicted pity. Words that used to come from the frontal lobe of my brain have all faded.
I found this pillowcase of my mother’s, it was on her bed the last night I saw her. What little sleep that I do get. I see her, I feel her arms. I’m a child again, my hair in tiny dreadlocks again, her arms filled with my body and her lips pressed against my forehead.
Serenity is blissful.
Her voice releases a melody, a hum that echoes down to my spinal cord.
I’m tossed into empty spaces and
I’m so afraid now,
Sleep is terrifying when all your pain is thrown into your dreams.
Heartache and joy are comingled in gut and I’m stuck always trying to sort through it all and then I wash all of it down with stress and I’m left with these sad words that I rarely ever want to put together anymore.
I’ve lost my dream of ever being a writer. I’ve never been good.
I’ve just been talking to myself hoping someone else would listen in on my nonsense.
Caring too much for others will never mean a thing we’re all just trying to fill a void. I’ve been mending wounds while old memories have been haunting my dreams.
I’ve become doctor and when I got left I was right where you they all left me.
Full of aggression and a tenacious heart I stood patiently.
Eventually after everyone’s shoved their IVs into my veins, I realize that I’m just a pawn and I’m just being drained of my wisdom and filled with everyone’s dark thoughts.
They’d all much rather not feel anything at all but love, they’re just afraid that everyone will hurt them.
Questioning whether or not all of these memories are worth it or they are just another part of how I act now.
Trying to grasp onto fragments of myself that I’ve left inside of everyone to see if I’m really real: hoping to find something in everyone else’s eyes.
How could you be so blind? I just needed to know if you all loved me too.
Because all I wanted was this love in this depressive state.
I’ve become anxious because I’m still standing in the same place I was left in.
People keep knocking onto the door to my heart and I’ve been letting them in.
Because I’m lonely, I wrote this in hopes of blaming everyone for how I am truthfully I am the cause of my own problems. People will never be to blame because even if I run from them and ignore them at the end you always have yourself.
I am too kind of a person to ever throw the blame on anyone else.
“The truth shall set you free”