I wrote my thoughts on yellow paper:
blue lines,
red margin,
I found relief in the feel of the smoothness against the side of my hand--
and I was content with life for awhile

but I realized that that life was false,
some abomination of the real world--
a place of kindness where there was evil,
a utopia where there was none

and my thoughts I think have become juvenile with age--
which is to say I feel childish in my emotions:
unable to feel the things that are important
instead of those problems which are just surface level

my anxiety is a demon clawing at my shoulder,
it holds and it holds and it holds--
it is stuck into me with sharp teeth and talons,
and it reminds me everytime I move my arm that it is there--
always watching,
always whispering
gurgled words I have long since known how to fear

and it's difficult to say why I feel this way,
maybe I was cursed ,
maybe I was just born unlucky,
or maybe it's been my fault all along
letting pathetic reasoning take place

I wish I could go back to that paper--
that yellow glare of comfort,
the easiness of feeling something controlled for once
but instead I speak about petty nothingness every two weeks--
too enamored with the idea of the now,
that I am unready and unwilling to open up the past

it always ends like this :
blank pages glaring,
forced steady breathing,
with the knowledge that avoidance is the same thing as accepting