The feeling of being stuck is a chaotic jumbo of anxieties and big dreams. Now i know this isn't a race. Everyone moves on their own pace. But when everyone but you moves it sorta feels like your race never even began. seeing the same old crystal blues over a fiery evening sun seems almost mundane. The joys of past do not amuse me. as much as i would like the child within me to live. it no longer does. The passion for life embering within the hazel brown of my eyes no longer give hope. but calls out for help yet when help arrives refuses to be saved. For a pride burdened by dreams cannot take the weight of being saved. i hear people chant " The Storm will pass" never hearing the rush of thunder or the excitement of a life with wonders. I hold my lamp to the sky wishing the calm would pass.
YOU ARE READING
Early Life crisis
PoetryA bunch of poem-ish writings. basically my coping mechanism.
