Perhaps speaking into the silence is just as deadly as never speaking at all. My tongue is bitten, bleeding and blistered yet through the pain the screams are still heard though the ears they fall upon are deaf to the sound, ignorant to the cries, and unaware of their creator's torment. My torment.
31 years of self induced dislocation and disassociation of all that was and all that is.
The fine lines of reality and illusion are blurred. I can't read what's in between anymore.
How is it everything in life is easier said than done? Why is it we can so confidentially comfort the same pains in another yet we can't comfort our own?
Usually at times like this when my thoughts equivocate my own mind the poetical language easily flows through the steady motions of my fingers. Yet tonight they are frozen stiff with reticence.
If only tonight was effortless.
If only tonight I could speak.
I'm drowning in the tears of my own eyes. So much so that I was reluctant to leave my mother's home because it felt safe. A safety needed from what I knew was to come when I returned to my empty home, alone. Home is where the heart is but when the heart is gone there is no home. I have no home only inanimate things to fill the spaces around me.
A warm body and loving arms to hold me tight feels only like a dream these days. It's been years since anyone has tried and even longer since I have let them. How is one to be love when they are dead to the world around them? I am dead. I died years ago though I am still here.
An existence that's left a daily deliberation of life and death. My death.
31 years of self induced dislocation and disassociation of all that was and all that is.
The fine lines of reality and illusion are blurred. I can't read what's in between anymore.
How is it everything in life is easier said than done? Why is it we can so confidentially comfort the same pains in another yet we can't comfort our own?
Usually at times like this when my thoughts equivocate my own mind the poetical language easily flows through the steady motions of my fingers. Yet tonight they are frozen stiff with reticence.
If only tonight was effortless.
If only tonight I could speak.
I'm drowning in the tears of my own eyes. So much so that I was reluctant to leave my mother's home because it felt safe. A safety needed from what I knew was to come when I returned to my empty home, alone. Home is where the heart is but when the heart is gone there is no home. I have no home only inanimate things to fill the spaces around me.
A warm body and loving arms to hold me tight feels only like a dream these days. It's been years since anyone has tried and even longer since I have let them. How is one to be love when they are dead to the world around them? I am dead. I died years ago though I am still here.
An existence that's left a daily deliberation of life and death. My death.
