Anxiety is - waking up for work and being paralyzed in bed for 45 minutes by nausea, tightness in my chest and an oncoming panic attack. Once I can move, I'm late for work, so I ask to come in late. I lay in bed, sick, scared and writing poetry - hoping for something to save me.
There are days When I can still feel the agonizing ache In its accelerated beats As your image reveals itself Behind my lids, When I think the threads Of those stitches I sewed Four years ago (has it really been that long? ) Haven't yet dissolved And are keeping me closed, And when I can feel your breath Against my cheek And eventually my rhythm Keeping time with yours. But these words are not Unfamiliar to the pages that I bleed onto Every time I briefly feel broken again. So, this is a letter to the last person Who broke my heart: Not you, But myself.
To this day I don't recognize the eyes that stare back at me Every morning when I rise to soft beams of light That creep their way through the holes in my blinds As I make my way down the hall To look into the reflection in the bathroom mirror. You see, Sometimes When someone tears you apart repeatedly, You just start to view them differently. There are times When all I want to do Is reach into that image And clasp my hands so tightly around her throat Until her skin grows blue But her fight grows red, And if she would listen to me, I would tell her to quit sprinting From anything that makes her feel, Because every time I hear her feet press the ground, Every time her leg muscles bulge in flight, I can also hear a glass heart shattering Against her thoracic cavity, But I still feel nothing.
Let me raise a glass to finding the solution. Take a sip. Swirl it in your mouth. Feel its bitter taste against your tongue Until you unlock the door To the invisible brick wall In front of you. Let someone else break your heart for a change.
morning.
Author: Kairee F
0
Date: 07/04/2020
№ 1210083
Good Morning
The sun cracks the atmosphere with the utmost roar which makes you ask yourself whats in store for today being that way brings less decay and obstacles along the way in a new day. Beams of light going through the shades as your favorite dream fades and you're left with emblematic scenarios and no choice but to take care of those. In everyday there are the highest and lowest points but those are the moments that are cherished most. Morning is time to start the day and prepare for your destiny and making the best of it is important because 24 hours isn't an eternity
You were just a small bump Before you stole my heart away, Little fingers wrapped around my finger Your so little but your love has my flying Your like Saturday's And I'm like Sunday morning Your All I need.
Madrigals of March Echo throughout the Port lake backcountry With river dancer vibrations, lapping waters, Sashaying marsh grass along her fertile shore Uplands of live oak, elm, birch and sycamore Shadows of raptors and herons alight brown pasture in Evening performances, evergreen seedlings helicopter Into the unknown, bass note bullfrogs, light breezes Chaperone a gaggle of redwing blackbirds bound for Sweet home*...
I spend my sundays waiting for the sun to reach the edge of my sagging roof porch and In the sprawling moments in which i wait i flip through pages which tell me of my destiny And i try to figure out why the fuck i care about a future that i may never know, But good god do i care.
These words swim in front of me like creatures in an effervescent pool, glowing green, Because of some strange algae scum that sticks to them and their surroundings, Forever catching my eye and interest, though they will never leave the pool, or in this case, The pages on which they lie.
I analyze each past moment in contingency with each morsel of advice this book has to offer And i wonder how many times i've already fucked up on my karmic path, But somehow i find comfort in the small intricacies that weave within my own existence, Time passed in the way the book spells it out.
I start to wonder if this is any different than witch craft, or religion, And i find myself faced with another question, what exactly do i believe in? Suddenly i realize that the purpose of this book isn't to give me answers, it's to make me ask questions, And that's when i slam it shut.
I'm sick of answering questions and wondering who i am, like i'm some fucking hero from an epic, Plus the sun's starting to warm the dark roof that scrapes my bare feet when i pace back and forth, And the only thing that makes sense right now is going outside and Lighting my last god damn cigarette.
