Wednesday, April 07, 2021

My Teatrical Disaster

 My head goes places.

It rounds on itself,

tries to control the controlling of it.

"I need to control myself less, leave it be and stop worrying"

"I need to control more to actually participate in my own life when I'm better"

Well, I'm not better

I'm not worse either.

Tired maybe.

But all my head thinks is disaster.

All my mind goes is to drowning.

The day you love someone and try it.

Everything will come only to implode on you.

Everyone will come only to judge you.

No one is looking, but if they do

they will check the trash you see in the mirror too.

Or the day that you'll try to get the dream job

oh, one of those big ones, childhood said and set in stones.

You anxiety will come to stop, your performance certainly will drop.

And you know.

This is all in your head.

All of these demons should be already dead.

But they are not.

They are here, they are there.

when I look it's everywhere.

Inner or not. Demon or not.

Sorry, am I crying too much?

Expecting too much?

What should I expect?

What should I think to be ok with myself?

It's like I said before

internal disaster, nothing functions.

the knots are formed in my thoughts

I'm not really clear what is true

and what is not.


But in the meantime,

my mind goes places

I rather forget.

Time's Arrow Only Marches Forward

 It's not art if it just comes out of fear is it?

It's just the demons speaking.

They tell me that's useless,

that I'm powerless,

I lack of any effort

or letter.

yet...

the weights in my hands...

prevent me from writing what I have to say...

..keep me from saying what I want to write.

They don't allow me to think

because when I do,

it's all blur lines in the dark,

it's all past tense,

it's all disaster ahead.

It's myself dead,

it's myself sad.

It's the fear to write

with the courage to admit the fear you have.

But is it really that brave?

If all I do is think without direction?

Breathe without conviction?

Laugh without substance, cry without being convincingly hurt.

It's all hurt,

it's all dirt.

It's yet another text,

another round for the fighter.

It's yet another instance

where feeling lost meets the writer.

Applesauceless Week

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