I've been living in a constant and catastrophic mental state. I'm trying to silence my memories. I need to forget the emotions That I'm forced to relive. I've yet to eliminate Their presence in all I do. There isn't a single moment That isn't embraced in nostalgia. The lyrics in songs I'm unable to delete, Reanimates it all. I've used a million different words To explain what I couldn't. In the end, I am faced with the reality That I can't just run. I can't escape through objectivity and pencil lead, This time. All of my unspoken secrets remain, Slowly clawing away at my sanity. In remembering where I've been, I'm killing myself from the inside, out. I know, You can't empathize or understand. And⦠I've always known this, So, it's okay.
Nobody ever really wanted to. Nobody ever really could.
However...
There exists a deep loneliness that's rooted in my own deception. I'm always fighting to be listened to. Spent weeks painting pictures nobody saw. I wish someone had just proved me wrong. Which sounds odd, to anyone else.
I don't want to write what's never gonna be read. Why write out the details of a story nobody wants? I often wonder - Even if I am finally opened and read - Would their understanding change my story's end?