initiate-infinity

my words held the only light in my oasis of opacity. when pen struck page and i was able to obtain feeling and ambiance, only then, was i complete. those phrases in which i created shimmied through the shadows and glistened; each one was a star. when that was taken from me, so was my hope. even though they were merely words, they were mine. the only thing that was mine. and when i found them ripped from me, being recognized through a name not my own, i was exalted, exposed, exhausted. i coerced my troubled mind to believe that it was my sworn duty to end my existence. as a writer, at least. so, i quit. i gave up. and these things makes a pe

it's just one of those things. the grass is green, the sky is blue, and i am implicated. i am foolish in my unhappiness. you talk about me like i'm not in the room, and maybe i'm not. i'm a ghost. you fill me up and spit me out and i am rainbow colored vomit. i am a ball of emotions that go up and down. i don't understand myself and that's okay. nobody does. the only thing that makes sense about me is that i don't. at all. i am a poorly drawn map with crooked lines and places where the pencil has been erased. what you don't don't understand is those empty spaces have caused more pain than the lines that have been made permanent by pressure