i only ever feel like writing when something has happened that makes me want to get rid of it all, (anger, sadness, jealousy) or when i want to remember that feeling forever, (happiness, love, excitement) yet everything always sounds so less materialistic if i write it like a shakesperian. (in poem form basically, yet i change all the word order cos my heads all muddled and i call it shakespere because all his words never make any sense either.)
i just wish i could get away from it all. this is way too much to handle when am i really to blame?
I’m broken somewhere,
Not scarred or tortured, not hurt or sore,
Cos broken is something so much more.
I can touch the sea; I can stroke the sand,
But I feel nothing deeper, than the cold pavement I stand.
My heart is locked, my mind a mere tool,
All I am; just another fish in the pool.
This world aplenty,
The ‘beautiful desire,’
But what if it is only, just land we require.
To live the lives we aspire so much,
When at the end, what is left but dust?
Our achievements so little, yet our goals even less
What if we’re only, the body we possess.
I can feel these walls, closing up even more,
Maybe this time, there will be no door.
No place to run, and no den to hide.
On these broken scraps of ‘life’ do I survive.
I’ve finally seen my insignificant self,
And my yearn for the end, pounds me with stealth.
To hear the rip, and see the black,
A tear of pain,
But then that, will be that.