Quitting is never easy.
Falling into the mundane,
Living in the crevices of routine,
Now that's simple.
Not a problem.
Repetition comes like a dance.
You reside in each move,
Numb,
Mindless.
Muscle memory does all the work.
Until the music runs out.
And you stand without motion.
Without direction.
You realize you have been dancing,
For ages,
But have no idea what moves you even made.
Hollow,
Yet you have this dance.
Activivating automatically.
And as the awareness grows stronger,
That urge to repeat,
Grows dimmer and dimmer.
Until one day finally,
After ages of practice,
The music begins
Yet you refuse to dance.

In love with life
Though I am not attached.
I am blessed with many gifts,
And loved by those who SEE.
I do fear.
I do loath.
Though mostly I rejoice
Just to be alive.
I see beyond this form.
To the dimensions which dance between.
And when my form here ends,
I know I will still see.
I love my life,
But I am not attached.

Sometimes I like to stare in the mirror.
Not because of vanity.
Not because of conceit.
Purely to see my own energy.
To look straight into my own soul.
My reflection releases me,
Reminds me this is just temporary.
I love to look at myself,
And notice something new everyday.
The days pass and I change.
I grow.
Not up or down.
But sideways.
And around.
I reflect on the past.
And even the future too.
I look in the mirror and I see.
I see.

Afflicted upon by mass ****** suffering.
Unable to decipher whether internally or ex.
I tremble under the wash of black that engulfs all light touches.
Blurred vision, impaired by sheer surprise.
Alone and ripe.
Black and blue.
Inside and out.
I fight for nothing;
For a man that knows no loyalty.
Broken hand.
Broken heart.
Broken home.
Four years of come and go,
Two and fro,
Back and fourth,
Lie some more.
Four years I'd loved him.
Forever in my heart.
Foolish I chose such, no honor,
no respect.
Little effort. Lazy ***.

If I could still write poetry-

I'd write about how you betrayed me.
I'd make it a lyrical nursery
That gently cradled all my insecurities.

They'd bounce around from wave to wave,

Like an ominous symphony.
Synomous to love,
yet fueled by defeat.

If I could still write poetry.

I'd write about being second best,
I'd write about losing you, and
Above all else- losing rest.

If I could somehow still write-

Maybe this feeling would flee.
Perhaps then I could show you.
Perhaps then you could see.