A period of venting that doesn’t make sense, still full of self-hatred and loneliness


Maybe I’ll take this broken heart out my chest and throw into your arms so you carry my pain too. I don’t want apologies for the pain I’ve suffered majority of it all was self-inflicted.
Focusing on my conversational skills so my thoughts don’t seem frantic whenever you look me in the eye and speak, my heart heavy and my mind’s weak.

I’ve grown tired of putting my heart at stake for the ones around me so they’ll have a comfort zone when their eyes are heavy with pain and their cheeks flooding.

Attempting to keep
My thoughts in order. Because I everything I write is written in sporadic burst of uninspired angst.

I can only write this dark place and it always feels like I’m trying to empty out a bottomless pitcher of dark water.

I’ve been searching for something in myself for a very long time, I haven’t found an answer or a profound explanation of how things work in my head.
I’ve been trying to find some way to tell people that I appreciate them, that I love them for all that they do to try to motivate me and pull me out of the dark I love so much.

I was never good at making any of you people proud, because I know that just a simple “thank you” would never be good enough.

I’m afraid these words I’ve always struggled to put together will never be worthy of anyone’s thoughts.

I’ve been trying to write something my whole life that would define me, that words that I made concrete could put in place so that I could admired for my art. Even if that art is a failure I want to only be accepted.

My eyes burning in the early moments of dawn as I struggle to construct a moment in these words that worth a glance over by another human being.

When I first started writing, it was all about this one woman who I thought I was in love with,

I experienced everything through my failures with her, I felt joy, misery, disgust, passion. Human nature knew I had enough but I didn’t listen to common sense, I chased cherry blossom petals into a dangerous forest where all the eyes were on the man who never left her side.

My demons say the smoke takes my pain from me and the alcoholic tendencies take the loneliness from me. All in this pursuit to cope.

Attempts to cope with all my losses, the thump of my heart echoes in the darkest hours of the night. The realm in which I exist; the only time I feel more than just a pawn.

Trying to compile words in a way that is significant. To create a lasting memory.

I’ve been really
Afraid of writing for about a year now.

I’ve been just jotting down words, like I used to.

Things haven’t hit me the same way, they haven’t hit me at all.

I’ve pushed myself back into a corner. Where my words don’t give me the same therapeutic sense of relief that they once gave me.

All my words feel forced. My love feels fake, not
To others but to me.

All these sentences and lines used to be my motivational cry that echoed in other people so they could escape the path similar to mine.

I wrote for people who sinned, who felt as I do.

I wanted to play superman and save the ones whose hearts were filled with light but their mind was just clouded.

Now it feels like my cape feels like a noose. Focused too much on the safety of others when i alone felt the emptiest. Overlooking myself.


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