Sometimes
We realize that despite our best intentions,
We are not made for some things.
More often than we'd like to admit,
We realize this to late.

I feel like a waste of time
My stomach boils with pink pills
Eyelids droop- I pry them open
To drink words I thirst for
Taste worlds I yearn for
Sludge pools in from the bitter thoughts
Soaking soaks- soaking sponges
Run and drain out the membrane
Everything is all too much
I seem to never be good enough

Senseless bubble erase the fears
Mundane life pulls at heartstrings taut
Carving ridges and trenches of pain
Back beaten concerns and worries
Never fully flush from my flesh
Excitement bursting and dissolving
Like acid into everyone's apathetic ears
Long limbs elaborating tales that could
Otherwise simply suspend with sentences
Splashes of distaste scald at my face
Burrowing deeply into my deep diseases
I'm thousands of degrees to cold eyes
Yet I burn within their icy glares of uncare
Every nerve twitches while others' tingle
Soft happiness blooms into blissful days
Torn by how I feel all too much yet am not enough