DRY
Dry. Dead water dry.
Void of all this mushy emotions.
Not my fault, they hit too hard.
My mechanism is on the defence.
Each time a dart is thrown, I erect a wall.
My thought has been, "oh I'm just keeping balance."
But now I know, that's an introspective fallacy.
Dry. I could cry you a gosh damn desert.
Should I be scared that when you hit, it doesn't scar anymore?
Should I be worried that there's no blood pump anymore?
Should I be?
In its place is a stone chest, armoured to the teeth?
Thought I was immune. Was happy even.
Now I get...now I know I'm just void.
I rid myself of it.
Should we forever be dry? Or should we let the currents rush in again and overwhelm us? And make us bullseye, dead center, to reality's darts?
As confused as I am dry. Even as I speak, my walls crack dry, dripping thirst. Should I feed them, or let them Sahara on?
Chimdiogo #theinkminded