I feel as if my poetry isn't mine anymore.
Every other stanza I spit out reminds me of the one that broke me, or glorifies the one who found me but,
Im still at a loss of how to find myself between the small spaces in my pages.
I can never keep my head ******* on straight enough to stop worrrying about one or the other
I can't just keep focused on my goal, there has to be something else, something bigger, waiting to be messed with when I get home.
Some kind of sectioned off drama or project to occupy my terrified mind and strangled heart.
But my projects either don't last long enough for me to find a new one
Or last too long and I simply get bored and throw it away.
See, that's why I can't have nice things.
Because either I'm to fragile to take care of the broken or too bulletproof to be sympathetic
And I can't help but smoke cigarette after cigarette wondering what would come next.
Which project will help me slip between the cracks again?
Which one can be the most self destructive without activly hurting myself or others?
I guess that too, has been lost in the spaces.