What manner of evil is it when you look at life and you can't breathe? When words don't flow out of your fingertips like they used to?
What do you do when your footprints recede into the ground, and all you hear is a faint echo what could have been?
It's not hard. It's not how it used to be, when being locked was better than freedom, when it hurt to face things head-on because we were too young.
Youth is overrated because the only thing you can do is let it slip away when you have it, and drown yourself in a bundle of regrets when you don't.
These days, it's uneasiness. An early taste of sadness that will follow this moment, of failure, of repentance. We look up, and there's the sun shining like it always has, unaware of the war that rages in our blood.
This is how it will be. This is what we signed up for. This is sugar, where life is sweet, but only for as long as it remains.
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Hiraeth
PoetryHIRAETH- (n.) A homesickness for a place you can never return to, a place which never was. Previously: Songs Of My Lonely Soul. *** A Song Of My Lonely Soul. A Ballad Of My Heart Whole. A Story That Was Never Said. When We Find It To Be Dead. ...
