there is a storm raging on in my head,
i can breathe and cry, but all i see is red,
i do hate to say this, but i wish i was dead
there, it's only the truth and it's finally been said,
you can yell all you want to, but one thing won't change:
i am breathing while crying, and all i see is red
- there is a storm raging on in my head
keep fighting, you'll get through it
emotions are so fluid, don't act impulsively when you're feeling low
be safe, my heart goes out to you
the old you.
ill admit it.
the little things:
what you did,
what you said,
i can't forget
you or the memories
you gave me.
i can't forget,
in my head;
the past you.
I remember him all too well. I want to forget, but I can't.
If i could make sense of these screams could you quiet them?
Silence them like a billion violins with plucked strings
Please end the ticks and static buzzes floating from neutron to atom to neuron to cell
Just still my mind for once so i can end this Hell
Let me be at peace with myself
Then maybe I'll be able to accrue some kind of wealth
Monetary or mentally im meant to be something, what exactly i don't know
I hope i find out soon because this wild world is still very cold.
"Come on page, where do the words fit?"
In the puzzle that is my brain, i ask as at
The table i sit
My hairs have split, like cheap ****** Remy
But then again maybe my idea bulb isn't lit.
"Come along pen, why can't you write?"
We've been up with this piece since last night
I ask myself again, this is really starting to frighten me, i know i might be pressuring myself too much,
But that's where the best moments come from, in the clutch.
"Come on heart, where's your spark? You usually flutter in the act of creating art!"
But alas no wings flapping, and no adrenaline rushing like a spotted chameleon
Just stone faced cynicism like a gremlin
If I had something inspiring on my mind don't you think that I would've written it by now
I love being a writer but sometimes it gets me down
The pressure escalates like the water in the everglades to top myself, like pulling miracles out of my head is a miraculous act
I can't turn water into wine And I can't turn stacks of hay into clever punchlines
I guess what I'm trying to say, like Dr. Mccoy is that I'm a writer not a magician
I can only take what myself and others have gone through, and turn it into something relatable, that maybe just maybe someone will take something positive out of what was written
I can only play the hand I was dealt
So no I'm not sorry for what I've felt
Life is nothing short of a gamble
And I know I tend to ramble
I'm just making the most of what I've got
Seeing if you're interested or not
Because I find you rather amazing
I'm really not the best with the phrasing
I'm a little old fashioned
With how I express my passion
Though if you would take the time
To converse with me past the rhyme
I'd hope you'd come to see
There's a whole lot more to me
Than some scattered paper and ink
Allow me to show you how I think
It's a little crazy and far-fetched
Enough that I often get shipwrecked
I blur my reality and dreams
Still don't quite know what it means
But with the woman I see
Could you really even blame me?
I can't imagine anything better
Though I fear the day she reads this letter
It's been awhile since I've written something of this length, which I find funny because that's kind of how I began when I started writing poetry. Nice to get back to some of my roots.
In my head,
I see things.
What do they mean?
What do they want?
Should I stay?
Should I run?
The doctors try,
It has been,
In my head,
I get lost.
In my head,
You get lost.
— The End —