My head feels like it's constantly on a marathon trying to get to first place, trying to make sense of what's left tangible, the tiniest bit perceivable. I like to try to murmur to my right ear the sweet nothings in which I never even believe-no matter the extent I've dug deep because everything there is in this fragile chest of mine are hundreds of wailing ghosts I have no capability of releasing.

And, I hate it.

adhesion of water on the glass
in the car it feels foreign
maybe delusional is the mind
to think and think constantly
stare at it longingly
then it will be undone

as bare the body
as bold the head
i rub in circles
try and try the melancholic hums
to no avail it numbs
not the left hand
nor is the right hand
thus the chest screams
in silence

round and round the wheels of the car
travel the echo to an empty space
there is no instance to mask
the lines on the skin

expectations and assumptions
you and i
we had it all

why am i here?
i said as i clutched onto my books
indecisively struggling
it is a common event that i never anticipate
must have been the invisible weight that i carry on my shoulders
or the sleep that I'm deprived of

it is easy to speak and make a fuss
but difficult to ignore the voices that echo in our heads

it is all too concentrated
i feel suffocated
but i still keep the noose on
and drag around my own being
in these places
it is like play pretend
and i am the impostor

it was them
who preferred the mask
confusion was the one who got lost
in what it thought to be a playground

i am still strangled by the noose
as i continue to lose
surrounding my neck for its pleasure
and i stay here
blankly staring at the wall
of memories

faint voices
caused by the exaggerating colors
we remain afar
rhetorically living with the past
it has gone too tight
we can not let go

metaphorically or ironically
we are walking on shards of glasses
our sense of logic is fading
just like our companions
they promised loyalty
we returned the favor
consequently we receive nothing

frowns and upside downs
we have them
predictions and probabilities
they are not accurate
we depend on them
why is that?

nothing makes sense
we are all clouds
surrounded by an ocean
of unfinished priorities
cheerful conclusions
can not be guaranteed
as we are after all
imperfectly different
hoping to hear of
the victorious bell

everything seems so plain, dull, almost lifeless
all I see are preoccupied shells
not a single soul listens
so I sit here
with this brush in hand,
ready to dash
and I take off the scarf to adjust

all I am is a creature walking on shards of glass, hoping to find a new path instead of the crooked bridge I’ve tried to fix