The sudden thoughts of failing before even starting. The unclear image of the future. The part where everything that you do eventually crumbles down. And feeling alone through it all. These thoughts makes you lie down and curl up on the bed, trying to pull what’s inside your chest while your swollen eyes can’t tear up anymore.
Have you ever felt so fucking sad that your heart feels like it’s going to explode any moment?
How could you let your inner chaos spill and ruin what we have created here. From fragments of ourselves cut to pieces, our nail draws and our blood smears the intimacy we once had— forever lost? We still cling to something that isn’t there hoping to find a reason and another cause and go back from the beginning and be bared, be stripped back from all the lies and pain that was brought by mistrusts and blames. Foundation built for years was demolished. Now, debris are falling on our dented shield. How could we both let it get this far? Is there anyway to salvage this love of ours?
Colors leaking outside of me, a once active imagination now unable to see and create tales as lively as before, I now live inside a dying world with a dried up source never knowing when it will replenish or should I just accept that soon every story inside of me will somehow perish?
The ray of the sun’s light is not too bright to pass through this thick fabric curtain and the morning comes but it does not shine in the other side of the window. Until the sun has to set, the bed is still yet to be vacated. Awake through the night and through the dawn with no light, just a debilitated psyche to perceive the misty surroundings— searching for a dash of light and pulling all the threads of this thick fabric. Restless mind through the dark, not even a glint came through out of all the sunrises and mornings. Supposed hopeful journeys and new beginnings led to wasted life and daily mourning.
I wrote a bunch of poetry back in 2017, it was all over the place. So, I finally retrieved it from my old broken laptop and some were from my old journal pages that I may have forgotten about.
The scars from the past are still covered up with plasters, and time didn’t do its job to heal the wound from the disasters that I had hoped would disappear but it’s a chip on my shoulders I can’t brush off, and its claws cling. Stitches are open and the pain lingers.