Tonight feels like salt, but not enough wounds to pour it in.
There is no relief, no distraction
from the feeling taking my lungs' motion away.
I can't breathe, I can't see,
stasis and the puddles that accompany it.
The crushing grip of unproductivity
shakes my soul as a giant would a doll.
Wasted, wasted, another day wasted.
When will the spaces on the clock be worthwhile?
I am perpetually shoving myself off of an edge into a pit of something menacing,
I can't seem to give up on tearing down my own walls.
Two lines, or three, streaking down my cheeks -
a signification of my misery for everyone to see.
Embarrassment, now comes he -
with his lance, sticking it straight through me.
Stop looking, everyone stop looking,
I can't do this anymore.
When tears do not reveal my weakness,
my expression does.
I am quiet, disengaging from what I enjoy -
and they notice, how dare they notice,
I  don't want them to notice!
Curiosity and compassion are two very different things,
and the former is in overabundance.
I feel like a raincloud must, though I don't attain a pleasure of release -
my eyes spill out my insignificance,
therefore it is endless.