It's hard to admit at times,
how deep I've sunk.
When it all began
I thought I was manipulative
smart;
the way I could "pretend" not to care
so I could escape the shipwrecks I  inspired.
At the time I was so preoccupied with my fears
to notice just how much I'd disappear
It seems so inexplicable to care all too much
and suddenly
swiftly
so terrifyingly numb.
And sometimes it's everything
in every wake of blood coursing through my veins
the fear
the numbness
the pain
draining to vacuity, to ruin,
And in the waves bring immeasurable unease
disrupting an ocean of deafening speechlessness.
Some days are easier,
calmer,
some days are ******* impossible.
And always it seems much easier
to rest,
to sleep,
to collapse into the foamy rapids,
then to swim against the riptide;
And despite the efforts I've drawn in sand
the allure of the sea floor is present at all times.
But it always gets better,
though admittingly this bubble is hard to remember.


*In constant flow the sea is me,
chaotic, dark, free,
and so devistatingly beautiful,
a never ending cycle of
birth and death and continuity.

It’s odd
To be so intensely connected with one self’s interior…
To constantly bathe in past memories like sepia coated 60s reel…
To flip through emotions, cataloging their density yet being unable to see through the great complex field…
How does one have the entire plot?
How does one have all the development?
Yet lack the ability to articulate a proper character analysis?
It seems almost nonsensical,
To have all the experience but none of the memories.
Is it the time, a track not run all the way through?
Or is it a common oversight, a piece just out of view?
All this musing feels a bit inane,
These cyclical thoughts nearly driving me insane.

Ever since you came along
their light has dimmed
you are the sun.

My mind is chock-full of
love and literature
of music recommendations
of sleepless nights
of happiness and admiration,
and you
oh always of you.