The inner world, for me
Is a vast collection of imagery
That blends each moment
Into feeling
Expressed so fleeting
That even regret forgets itself
That even success rots in reflection
on introspection,
this world is stained glass
In one hand is paper
The other a brick
My breath catches.
Spin, release
Feel my insides pour out of in rainbow splinters.
Around me,
glass becomes sand
A mural of spinning colors.
Two lives, dance together,
Twined experiences,
sharing moments,
so many small moments.
they become their own language.
become there own smell.
So,
It's hard for others,
to understand.
We were apart from this world,
Lost in ourselves.
Close.
Now, with others, we aren't all here
Parts of us still are dreaming
I exist, little more
than as a cautionary tale
of what happens, when one time to many,
I was told to wait,
to be patient,
to plan
to put things off for a future I wanted to be living today.
I'm still waiting. But I can feel the walls relax.
Writing isn't therapy but its better to see
All the pent up lunacy
In words, collected, singing on paper
How I feel when someone forgets about me.
Selfish. Why should they?
When all the things I like about me are what drive people away.
They never say that I am the problem
To them, its them.
While to me, their everything
Feels like my heart aches
For someone to help me fix
What I didn't break.