It is the building up of things overtime
Like the uncontrollable cry
It is the feeling of the overwhelming
Piling on your shoulders.
Life swooping down
And crushing you in its talons.
It is the dark romantic ******
The finish.
The release.
The static and the scurry
The overwhelming
The rush, the pain, the ending.
It starts as only an idea in the beginning
But ends up as something unavoidable
The act that is harm,
Secret,
Told to no one.
It takes away the care.
Makes you numb.
Saves the day
In the day of darkness.
Who ever thought that such an act of pain,
And act of restriction,
Could bring such peace, relief, control.
On one thing to focus.
Not a million.