Pulling at my hair,
screaming in a corner,
fracturing the inner world surrounding me,
but my exterior is undisturbed.

Fractured smiles, polite lies,
tapdancing around the truth
with red hot shoes of iron
waiting for someone to notice
what I can no longer say.

Decaying in my mortal shell,
praying to a diety I no longer understand
but not sure what I'm even asking for,
or if they even care.

Throat raw, cheeks chapped
with tears I lack the energy to shed,
head pounding with emotions
that a mere skull cannot contain,
desperate for something better.

I've been in pain for so long,
losing myself in the swamp of my own lies.
When everything hurts this much,
how do I begin the healing?

I'm so very ready for a cure.

Cotton seeds are carried past my window,
winds drifting them like a December snow.
The day has barely started
and I'm already fed up with reality.

Messages swirl in my conciousness,
stirred by some insidious witch
getting pleasure from my confusion
as the worries contradict,
dragging me in their favored direction
without checking to make sure I can stretch
that many ways at once.

Sighing, I water the plant
I've kept alive on my sill
for an impressive amount of time.
Half of it's flowers are withering,
but it's likely due to age
over my neglectful care.

The dogs need feeding,
the dishes must be done,
I'm late on submitting my notes for last week.
The living takes priority;
their simple joys make life more bearable.

Everything else is shoved aside.
I'll get it done eventually;
even if I promised myself I'd be more productive
starting this week.

The chemically induced exhaustion
pulls me earthword,
making my limbs feel heavy
and my head float away.
But at least I don't hurt as much.
Physically, at least.

Pushing myself through breakfast,
I ponder the list of excuses I could use to skip work
before shoving them all away.
Life is siphoning my bank account away
far too fast;
do i really want to help it along?

Comb my hair, change my clothes,
remember I need to add deodorant
to my shopping list.
Shove my usual supplies
into pockets of ill fitting jeans
and mentally prepare myself
to exit the small comfort
offered by a home that isn't mine.

It's time to face the world.

Loneliness claws at my insides
scraping with talon-like fingernails,
engraving the same message
over and over again:

"You'll never be enough.
If somebody wanted you,
wouldn't they have found you by now?"

Confidence is our masquerade,
dancers hiding behind their porcelain shields,
telling themselves they're fine
until lies drip crimson.

"I'm not sad, I'm not scared.
I know what I'm doing.
I'm happy with my life."

Our pet demons watch from every angle,
whispering as they read what's in our thoughts.
We fed them with our misery,
tamed them with our complacency.

"They keep trying to move forward,
but what's the point
of struggling through the sludge?"

Hands reach out,
will you accept them?
Marinating in your despair
has been your existence for so long.

Is it too late to change that?

Toes curl around the precipice,
quivering with fear and anticipation.
Will I be brave enough to take the leap?
Is there anything left for me if I do?

Furious winds shove me away,
echoing the warning they offer to all who trespass:
"You are not welcome here.
Turn back now or face your demise."

Throat clenching, eyes burning, I stare into the void
and it replies, breath hot on my frozen ears;
"You could have eternity, love, freedom,
everything denied to you so far. I have it all."

It purrs it's promises with a silver tounge,
words dipped in honey and roses.
But underneath it all is a mournful refrain,
whispering of a permanent end to my existence.

One last look is all I can offer,
strength draining from my chest.
I know now what I need to do.
Peace stood before me with open arms,

and I turned away.
Propelled by the winds whose advice I had chosen,
I walked into the blinding light of the sun behind me,
stumbling but on my own feet,

continuing my journey
until I could find a better end.
Even if a single jump could give me all I've craved,
the price it would cost was more than I could pay.

I'll just have to make my own peace.

We live our lives
blind, dumb, unknowingly deaf
to the eternities echoing around us,
stuck in an echo chamber
screaming emotions,
sobbing the woes of the world.

We are a drop in the waters,
puddles, lakes, endless oceans
of a universe so vast
that no man will ever reach the end,
an addition that does nothing,
a subtraction quickly forgotten.

The forces ruling us all will be unchanged;
space, time, the laws of physics;
none will notice.
We bellow, whisper, laugh and plead,
raze mountains, build nations, conjure the impossible,
and still are swallowed, unremarkable.

But every drop starts something new,
ripples, waves, raging tsunamis
spilling over the edges of a small world,
brushing up against innumerable lives,
dropping a teaspoon of our essence
and sparking a fire that will never be quenched.

Nothing can ever be completely destroyed,
dust, dirt, the smallest atom,
forever recycled until the end of days.
We are made from the hearts of lions,
talons of eagles, fur of polar bears,
and the cores of stars of eons past.

Even if no one is left to remember,
to cry, smile, pass down our stories
from one heart to another,
we have started something that can never stop,
flowing outward from our birth, life, death,
no one can destroy what we are.

Questions race,
thoughts tumble like failed gymnasts,
banging against the outskirts
of a brain too small for containment.

Answers are elusive,
slipping through my grabbing hands
as they try to contain something
far too delicate for one to embrace.

Silence tries to surround me,
offering peace in its warmed folds,
but the caucophany is my world;
anything less is foreign soil, unaccepting.

Pen, paper, pastels, pencils,
all attempt to give them form,
but the pictures on a page
are a poor substitute for the ones in my skull.

Furious typing, teeth grinding,
what medium will they accept?
None can consume; all can ease the pressure,
slowly offering droplets of wisdom to a parched earth.

It drives us all to the asylum,
words, pictures, sounds on the edge of hearing
if we can't make a path to free them,
and so I create one failed masterpiece at a time;
perfection out of reach until the day I die.