It gets intense some days. Some days you don’t even wanna try, spend each and every moment tryin not to cry, Hiding from the demons that are haunting your mind when you realize the only thing stopping them is their disbelief of you… Damn if in’t the truth, holding out a bowl I’ll give you a scoop–give give give, an give some more but it doesn’t go away and there’s not too much in the way of a cure, flits racin through the dimensional spur only to provoke all that occurs, not even to the bad part if I have to infer …
What truly makes me suffer unjustly is the fact that I can’t trust me–my thoughts of course locked in my dome, is like a horse working a metronome–& I get bound up, just wanna be alone… Cuz I tried to explain and it only got worse—there they go, my words in a hearse… And I feel it deep, it cuts my essence, hollow shell of what used to be reference, giving up hope cuz it doesn’t make a difference
What I do manage to say, gets interpreted in the wrong way, nobody understands what I try to say…
As if I’d even know, cuz the memory’s shot–I can’t remember what I just thought, standing in a room and it doesn’t make sense, impending doom is what got me on defense so sorry if I seem a little tense cuz all of this ■■■■ is relentless…
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very good prose.
I’m in this same exact boat. For years, it’s painfully obvious, I write better then I speak. No matter how much help I seek.
My mind is full and filling still, but the 16 lane highway that my thoughts race on narrows to one lane leading to my mouth.
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