I’m hurt
But always from the point of my own sword
The problems cease to fade however skin unscathed leaves me unfulfilled.
I am a disease to my own mind,
Falling deeper into this depression, not falling, walking, I have the power to change direction but don’t know how.
Happy is threatening.
Happy is unsafe.
Happy has never been safe.
Happy means danger is hiding around the corner and if something else doesn’t cause it then it must be thine wounds that cause another’s.
Unhappy in love yet I am perpetually the problem. An outsider sabotaging the loveliness, a few days apart and suddenly a knife is drawn at the throat of an undeserving victim.
Because happy was never good enough for me.
Empty and jarring and sad and sorry and a passenger to the being who wreaks havoc and distraction, the builder of walls and the entity that pulls, no, snaps the strings holding my heart together until the final
Snap
He won’t get angry
He won’t budge
In efforts of sanity and peace he lays down and takes your anger and your resentment though most belongs directed straight at you
And he doesnt say a word.
Takes your bullets and your dagger and your sword and doesn’t breathe a word of anger. Not one of discontent.
Envy and anger and black putrid feelings ebb out of my skin and touch him yet he is not the rightful barer of my wrath
I am.
The sole disaster belongs to me.
I bring the storm to the bright days.
I bring the hail to perfectly smooth bumpers.
I bring the underworld to heaven just because it’s never quite enough to keep me full.
Empty and empty and empty.
The tin man’s cries have yet to reach the emerald kingdom.
And I have yet to find my peace.