its never-ending torture.

you're in my dreams at night,
you've taken over my thoughts during the day,
i cant get a break.

but, maybe i dont want to
maybe, secretly, i like it.

maybe, just maybe,
im looking forward to it,
this never-ending torture.

it might not be so bad.

a hero will love you as long as you're right
a villain will hold you through your darkest night

there are two types of sadness

there’s the kind of sadness
we ignore and
try to get rid of it
by finding new things to do
or we find someone to talk to
by blatantly avoiding any type of conversation
about feeling sad
about having any feelings at all
and then there’s that kind of sadness
that takes over
and it consumes any activity we do
we know it’s there
and there’s no possible way to avoid it
so we feed it exactly what it wants
it craves the sad music
it craves the isolation
it craves the anxiousness
and the sadness comes storming in
it has no manners
here we are calling sadness, an “it”
when all it is
is a feeling
that most people
call home

and so,
you called an ever-wounding heart,
heartless

What else are you crying
about the sadness of love
besides the way you got hurt again?

is this
what it feels like
to be a fossil
in the making?
to have pebbles,
sand and grit
swept slowly
on top of me.
not to mention
the crushing
and deafening
of miles of water
pressing it all down
to bury me.

but sometimes
sometimes there's
relief and light
when someone
digs through the
weight to reveal
the shadow of the
creature that once
lay there.
but then that husk
is reduced to
cinders in a mountain
of others.
and i guess you could say
that 'power station'
is adulthood.
or life.