She lived on the outskirts of sanity, took up jogging to outrun the rush of other voices, burned a sick day organizing her own criticisms, shaved her legs and edges for practice sake, trimmed her disorders as "normal" girls do, bought a fancy dress to envy but never wear, made marks on the calendar to believe she had places to be, like the local coffee shop, where they serve a favorite flavor, somewhat stable, somewhat frenzy.
Inspired by the poem title "Outskirts," by fellow HP writer Amanda.
I live for pleasure And it bores me. Out of measure, I live deplorably. In all frankness, I always tell lies. Reality is a mess I lately despise. Why not let go? Why not fritter away? Because I may never grow Lest I see the end of the day.
Stoical heart yet the urge to cry Unable to shead a tear, 'Cause the biggest fear to open up and try Made me to drown myself in my own state of anxiety. Did the broken soul find a hug? Not a single person cared to bug. I am not what has happened to me Bounded by fate or dejection Choices and rejection Part and parcel of life. I am what I chose to be. I'll break and I'll fall I'll rise and fly Till I find my wings soared high.
" What happens when people open their hearts? They get better.. " ~ Haruki Murakami ♥
Telltale signs of paranoia ***** at the hackles that run from head (to heart) down the spine drown the mind Psychotic neurotic autistic artistic Imagination whirls like wind through the pines and The hair along my spine Is standing