Can’t put my feelings on paper, can’t phrase them in words.
Something doesn’t feel right.
Something’s giving my inner tissues an irritable itch.
It can be hollow emptiness, it could be stinging hurt.
Do I care? I don’t want to.
I can’t even write, I can’t even think.
What am I thinking about then?
Am I thinking about thinking? Or am I thinking about not thinking?
Or maybe I am thinking. Thinking about what? Err..
My heart is pounding for something, like it’s trying to reach for something.
Tell me what it is, and I swear I’ll try to help in reaching it.
Just don’t leave me hanging because I will suffocate.
Ever felt hatred towards everything but with the desire to hug the world in a tight squeeze? As if getting hold of things inside your arms will do you good.
It’ll probably ******* up even more baby.
I feel death. I want to have a beautiful death.
But before it, I want to dedicate a poem to each and every friend that has made me feel warm in a skin icy-cold.
Your presence is evergreen.
Your words are softer than milk.
And your hugs are a whole other world.
I want to be covered in paint.
Black space, blue ocean.
Blood red and grey skies.
I want to be buried with the same t-shirt I’ll never take off for the rest of my life.
I don’t want change, but I desperately need it.
You can’t mix conflict with contradiction and expect a beautiful thing.
One day, all this will end.
But only God knows when.
For now, I’ll only stain my wrists with wet ink and sit here as I sink.