I want to write a poem but my words are broken pieces. I want to write a song but all my notes are so off key. There is so much I want, so much I long for. But I can't possibly organize my chaos. I want to file away my anxiety, I want to stack up all my trauma, I want to pack away all my tragedy.
I reach a certain sort of peace, I relish. But peace is just a simulation I feel. I want to be more stimulated. I want to find the answers to all my scattered inquiries. My mind is a tornado. Broken glass is scratching up my brain. Yet gentle notes are comforting my subconscious.
Love is just an addiction. Am I ever even pure? Am I ever even true? I want to go to rehab. I want my love in healthy doses. But I'm a child with a bottle of pills. My expectations are diverse. I long for romance novels. I search for fairytales. I'm on the road to disappointment.
Romance isn't dead they say. I believe that's so. Romance isn't dead, it's the killer. It's a simulation of it's own. Some bask in it forever, others see past the projection. But which am I? I see how beautiful it can be, and I also see how deceiving these feelings can be.
I get high. So fucking high. On top of this dirty world, and I see the beauty. But my high wears off. My drug is never strong enough. My side effects are torturous. They hurt so many along with me. My side effects are heartbreak. To myself and others.
My addiction is deep seeded. How can I escape myself? I feel a sense of love. Towards myself. I like it. I like who I am. I want to recreate this feeling every moment. But it flees. I scare myself away. Please, just come back. I promise I won't bury you again.
