2:58
No matter
Where i go
Who i meet
What i'm doing
You're on my mind
But you do not get butterflies
In your stomach when i cross your mind
So this is getting really ******* annoying

Not Picture of nor moving frame
Can compensate a once done deed,
An all conquering lust for flesh
No wandering hand can deceive.
Inept in man burns his desires
A weakness?
Untrue?
Once believed.
A foggy face though haunting still,
Seems more ideal
than one of dreams.

Seeds sown by one who'll never reap
the fruits of time
of lessons learned.
The fall from high now feels redeemed,
And Grace,
by virtue; honour earned.
Yet,
Not seen by eyes intentions wished,
Wrought changes made in Vain?
How sentiments insist on this,
Mistakes not made again.

I think the best way that I can describe anxiety is that it’s always there in the back of your mind, in the pit of your stomach, in the lump in your throat, even when you’re smiling or laughing or dancing or running.
It isn’t bigger than everything else you’re doing but it feels like it. It’s like a parasite, this small thing that has the ability to completely take over your body whenever it feels like it.
It doesn’t matter what mood you are, all you can ever feel is “anxious,” which might be mixed with other emotions but really, when you feel it, nothing else can matter. It forces it’s way to the front line and pushes everything else aside.
It changes the way you see things like the sun and the flowers and the buildings and it changes the way you hear things like your favourite song and the sound of the subway arriving and the wail of a siren. The sun is too bright and the flowers remind you that things around you are growing but you are not, and the buildings just confirm that everything in this world is so much bigger than you and your small problems, and your favourite song just makes you cry and the subway makes you miss home and the sirens make you long to be back home where you could hear crickets and rain and silence.
Anxiety makes everything bigger and more complex than it was ever meant to be, but all you can do is live with it and stay away from busy intersections and isolated alleys and roof edges and try not to cry in public and just hold it together.
What else can you do?

Do you suppose the essence of humanity tastes like cinnamon?
Does ecstasy destroy anticipation?
Have we ever lived?
Does the hurt fool reflect by drinking and shooting his gun?

I enjoy laughing at my missing lack of wealth....or was it health?
I definitely kept steady figures, in either case

This makes no sense, but at least it kept you entertained for a few minutes.

That was rude.

Netflix brain ticks
Shoulda woulda
day fix.

relax
realize
accept
live
love
eat
rest
repeat
forever
peace

He sits at the table glares toward blank paper,
Sighs and glances to the empty trash bin.
No ideas, not in ages.
At least last time he had ideas to throw out.
Though back then, he had something to write about.
And back then, he still had a muse.

I get lost.  In my own head.  

According to my husband, I have been alarmingly quiet lately.  I don't mean to.  Really.  It just happens.

After a screaming match culminating with said husband telling me to get the **** out of my head; I told him that I am lost in the darkness of my past.

I have wounds that never heal just right. My past sneaks up on me when I least expect it too. It is forever mocking me and making me realize that I will never escape it.

Nobody really knows me.
Nobody really understands me.

I am lost and alone.

And that makes me weird and quiet.

I have nothing audible to say.  My voice is locked inside my thoughts, my hurts, my scars.  I hurt but how does one verbalize horror?  Horror in the movies is simply expressed in screams both silent and audible, twisted faces, running, backing into a corner, all until one is consumed completely by the evil.

To say that I am scared is an insult.  I am terrified.  I am haunted.  I live in horror.  I have joked before about what kind of writer I could be and I always conclude that I would be one hell of a horror author.  I love Stephen King yet the horror of his books is sometimes pale in comparison to my past. However, when I can, I have to wonder what happened to him?  Horror does not come naturally to most human minds.

I am struggling at this moment.  My past combined with the present has sent me reeling.  It is horror in black and white.  Black and white that is vivid color in my memory because it is my life.  These silent times are when depression grows taller and wraps its dense, dark grip around my mind, my body, my eyes.  The darkness is in the corner of my eyes, just out of sight, no matter where I look.

I paint a smile on and talk to people all day long.  But in those same dark corners on my eyes I have to wonder what if they only knew.  And if they did know would they be as lost as me?

Nobody really knows me.
Nobody really understands me.

I am lost and alone.