Some complain of not having enough time, my quarrel is with having too much.
When there's no sense of time, no direction of days, everything runs together like watercolors on a canvas.
I am silent, displaced from myself, an outcast to my own being.
Understanding this has become a never ending, vicious battle. There are days it all makes sense and others I fall to pieces like the pieces I can't place.
These four walls have been closing in, constantly harassing my inner peace. Surely there is a hand somewhere reaching to pull me out. Surely I am not alone although I am amongst a ghost town.
Physical pain is irrelevant to the internal pains of a broken, withered heart.
I want nothing more than for the screams inside to be heard.
Are you there? Is anyone there? Can you hear me? .... because I can't hear myself.
When there's no sense of time, no direction of days, everything runs together like watercolors on a canvas.
I am silent, displaced from myself, an outcast to my own being.
Understanding this has become a never ending, vicious battle. There are days it all makes sense and others I fall to pieces like the pieces I can't place.
These four walls have been closing in, constantly harassing my inner peace. Surely there is a hand somewhere reaching to pull me out. Surely I am not alone although I am amongst a ghost town.
Physical pain is irrelevant to the internal pains of a broken, withered heart.
I want nothing more than for the screams inside to be heard.
Are you there? Is anyone there? Can you hear me? .... because I can't hear myself.
