Where do I begin?

All that is left

Porcelain white, scared with the lines of grief and misery inflicted with the sole purpose of achieving ecstasy

Some barely noticeable, while others grab attention, intent on not letting go of its constricting gaze.

Not blessed with symmetry or perfected by the concept of congruence but wholly constructed on imperfections

Triggering nightmares that have plagued my mind and a constant unease bubbling in the depths of my abdomen

Inducing sleep with that of only a temporary cure. Preventing the rouse of countless restless nights

Although granting me with consolation and solace, even for the briefest of moments giving me an illusion of tranquility

With just one fluid motion or merely a flick of the wrist I can accomplish the misconception of pure bliss

Creating a masterpiece worth years of modesty and self deprecation for a fleeting glimpse of an unperturbed life

Art that only I can see, concealed from the wandering of unwanted eyes and the falsely concerned.

The lines that I write, not similar to a love song nor comparable to a delicate painting

Are rather rough and well defined, contradicting the fragile canvas that once lay barren of self inflicted blemishes

Originally created for a temporary reassurance and comfort now remains as a permanent reminder of my own cowardice

These lines that I created to administer a sensation of control have now become a constant supremacy

What was once used as an escape has now become the tyrant I wish to diminish from the unwanted desolation that is my life

My lines are no longer conveying a euphoric sentiment. All that is left is a hollow shell carved out by a never ending depression

~Melly