It haunt's me every night 
That Immature primal urge
Ruined my night and for some time, My sight
Unbeknown to all
This broke down my sanity wall. 
 
Now different as a whole , a poorly lit soul
innocence will quickly drain
Prior excitement seems mundane
You stole the light from my world
I am a monster, I am him
And now, You'll fear the grim

If the urge to quit roam in you,
then travel to the past;
the beginning that fueled you.

Sitting by her window
alone in a dimly lit room
fixing her gaze
on the midnight moon
feeling the thickness of night growing
she had that strong urge
to read
his unwritten story ...

I pay no mind to the man in the doorway
I've been learned that he will do no harm.
I diverge my attention from the knife in his hand,
Though I feel like calling out an alarm.
I pay no mind to what I hear inside
I've been learned that they don't mean a thing.
I keep the shriekings behind the bars of my cage
Though they often dance out when there's drinking
I pay no mind to deep grayscale urges.
I've been learned to work to give a ****.
I have a head who'd never lead me that way,
Though it's become harder to herd all the lamb.
I pay no mind to the changing of eyes
I've been learned that it's purely of face
I cover my own as I try to ignore them
Though they see how they're planning a race.
I pay no mind to the battles I witness
I've been learned to accept all our world.
I turn off the screen and cover my ears
Though the fists of my hands each have curled.

Sometimes, I just have the urge to curse at you.
But I just can't say it .
Obviously, I'm scared of being scolded.
But I really want to hit you with a truck
And say "goodbye"  forever to you.
But it's not that simple.
Especially that you're close to me.

What Is this urge I have
I don't understand

This drive to
Create,
To Invent,
To design.

What Is this?
I don't understand

How do I act upon It
How do I complete this
How do I start It

Where did It come from?
I don't understand

It's simplistically the most painful baring ever,
the world is rotating slowly alongside that time, we grow.
I sit here not amused with myself, in every form of way,
I honestly want to be grateful for everything,
but it is never enough for me.

I look at the clock going off in my mind,
ticking every single second away.
I stare at the walls which slowly decorate themselves,
but realistically always look the same.
I feel myself slowly urging to advance yet never seem to do so.
I see myself crying inside,
I want to let out yells and I don't know why.

A woman can paint her life away, staring at the same objects happily,
yet I am here sitting here writing the same **** things over and over until they satisfy me.

Why do I stress out on being so perfect to the eyes of others?