Some days I wake up confused. And lost.
Sometimes I feel like I'd just been crying. And I feel so because I know so. I know because I feel, the dried-up tear tracks running down the side of my face that hits the pillow.
Why was I crying? Why am I crying? What do I want?
I think I want meaning. I know I want a distraction. I think I know I want to let it all out.
Everything's a distraction, I'll admit. You're lifting me up mentally but I can also feel you dragging me down.
But I'm used to this and it's all way too familiar to me. Not a warm-and-cozy kinda familiar, an I've-been-cold-for-so-long-that-my-heart-is-frozen kinda familiar.
Can you figure me out? Because I can't.
Tell me, am I pretending, or trying to hide, or pretending to try and hide?
These songs I hear in my head, do you hear them too? You know, I can't help but sing along.
Inhabiting my body, possessing my mind, flowing forth from my mouth, and the mouth of those without an identity of their own.
At the end of the day,
I know who I am, I know what I am.
I am afraid.
I am afraid of myself.
I am afraid of the power I may possess and I am afraid of the power that may possess me.
Poetry was always like a means of escape to me. I used to pour my heart out to pages and pages at a time. Now, in a place where I simply cannot bring myself to write, or feel, anything anymore, I revisit times when my most raw thoughts were taken off my mind and placed on crumpled paper instead.