I can't write for **** when someone's watching me write.

Nevertheless,
I can't even began to express in any sort of poetic text the chaos in my deepest hearts of hearts. It's like every promise and every word have built an indestructible fortress of confusion and I'm finding there is always only a couple minutes left when I need time, and a long stretch of ticking, scarring hands when all I long for are the hours to possess.

So now I'm
reaching out blindly.
with prayers and intimacy
and sunsets and babbling brooks of quietness.
Is this what healing has left me?
Everything on the surface stings
And healing for good is but a breaking of my will away.
I can't find my freedom, though it's but a breaking of my will away.
I see you and every inch of my nonexistent remedy runs from me.
I hope, I pray.

Someday
You
Will
Leave -- Love---
Me too.