Walking on an island of the decayed.
The wind howls like the echoes of a crying piano melody.
I can't feel anything.
But the stinging of the venom in my heart.
And the tear-streams on my face.
It's so hard to be what everyone else wants you to be. It's like a door down the hallway that you're running to, but the hallway keeps stretching, and your legs are getting worn out to the point of breaking. Yet, you just want to reach that door, but somehow you know it won't ever happen.
For those days that feel like a mistake,
For those times that love is what you hate.
I find it so hard to speak of how I feel, because I'm tired of harming others with how my feelings are harming me. In some ways, I wish that sympathy and love didn't exist, so I might live a life content and alone.
But I can't, and I know I don't want to be alone. Hell . . . I don't want to be alone.
But what if am?
The night approaches, and darkness settles into the town as streetlamps flicker on with their amber light.
A beautiful contrast of color, as the dark blue surfaces and the orange-white pulses.
It is beautiful.
There is beauty in everyday life. There are good things.
So why can't I see the good things in myself? Why can't I find the miracles in my life?
I want to lie on the road, the dark sky surrounding me like my night-time blanket. I can feel the rocks resting beneath my back. I can see headlights approaching.
And, maybe for once, I am solid.
I am un-moving.
I am ready.
All of the things I want, all of the things I think I need . . . Will they always be up at the surface of the lake, taunting me as I sink deeper into the murk, unable to breathe?
That's all I know how to feel.