I'm losing the battle, funny how the only one who can really bring me to my knees like this is me. The world is dead to me, I've always been alone, but never felt this pain. Self inflicted thoughts, memories I don't want to claim. Its always the same old story just turned the page, the same dimensions but its a different game. Its not so different from how I started out, but its completely changed. The out come of this wont make sense but somewhere it makes logical sense. Contradictions of time and space.
Critical timing, the situations not ideal, but what could be causing such a blockade to form thicker, and higher. What is causing the walls to raise, and caution to linger. These thoughts that wont leave me alone, but the tears that wont fall. Anger is raging, but my body is weak and frail, I've fallen to far to my own demise. Does it have to make sense, I cant even navigate through my own maze, but I've been lost so long that I don't know if I'm really lost or if its just my imagination.
I could list of hundred problems if i could just open the door, but i must have long since hidden that key. Ignoring the songs that are forever stuck with me, trying to break free but id rather not. Words, have meaning, but sometimes can be missed. Miss the mark, but what is the mark of a true writer. And what can words really do to make a difference, they can change a story, alter a plot, but do they really have any deeper meaning. A hard thing to follow that of a lost sentence. A ramble of words all jumbled together to form what it is. But what is it? Why do writers put up their own blocks, why do distractions have to hurt so much. The act of writing is peace, but can cause malice.
Dreading to think of any form of the past, but write of it still. Why do you write when you cant even think. Thinking is a primal thing of the mind, what started as a poem turned into something more. Why did I stop poetry, from thinking about my obsession's with death. A poem took to far after a bad day. A horror played out through my minds eye. Ever still etched in the back, cant forget the words I made. Words of scorn but I would never carry out. Carried out words? Why? I'm talking to myself through words, hidden poetry that I'm afraid to touch again. Dreaded binder, I once held to my highest regards. Its what got me started, or maybe manga. Fanmade stories, made new into my own crafted worlds. Born of the characters that I formed, created villains' like my foes. Based solely on those who have wronged me or a friend.
Trying to recreate a life where I can read and write poetry on the page, but a page cannot be brought back from the grave I have dug.
