Written Feelings

you’ve ruined so many songs

you put pits

You wake up ready for the day, yet fight yourself to even get out of bed. You dress yourself according to how the day will play out, as if you have psychic mind powers to predict it.

There comes a point when you stop wishing on fallen eyelashes and shooting stars for happiness from external sources and begin manifesting it within yourself. That’s the point that you know you’ve sprouted into a new person. Greet that person with open arms.

You never heal all at once. You’ll walk through the fire time and time again until the flames can no longer burn you.

I had emotions popping off like champagne corks, but now the bottle has been drained of every last ounce and as am I - empty.

I tried...

im trying so hard to make a good life for myself.

I am audacious and daring, as well as a tremendous nervous wreck.

You can't give up on yourself just because you're not where you want to be in that moment. Shit is fucking hard but ya gotta pull through. However, it's okay to not be okay sometimes. If you're on the ground, don't try to get up and run. Lay there for a while if you need, but no longer than that. Then eventually you'll sit up, maybe look around. And after that, you'll probably be fumbling to stand up so in that case, just settle on your knees. There, you'll be begging to on your feet again. It's alright to ask for a hand. Once you're standing, it's still not time to run, okay? Take a stroll down the street, through the park or something. And finally, you'll have a dire need for something burning deep inside of you, and your ambition forces you to pick up the speed and sprint to wherever you need to go. Pace your breathing, run steady, and don't look back. You'll find your destination and get where you need to be, I promise. It may not be today, but some day. It's a process, that's life.

but your heart is warm and that wicked smile you flash makes my stomach flip flop and passion still ignites in your golden speckled eyes when you get excited so don't tell me you're dead inside when all that has to count for something

Upon impact, the adrenaline rushes to your head. The solidity of the wall against your bare knuckles is so satisfying; painfully pleasurable. Is it saddening that this is the only substantial foundation I know of? It's probably toxic or something, I hear it's harmful. Harmful to my hand, maybe. But last I checked, punching the shit out of a hard surface made me feel a hell of a lot better than holding in my frustration. I'd boil over if I tried catching all the briny tears rolling down my face then cramming them back into my eye sockets. Shattering every last bone in my hand sounds more appealing than listening to your ignorance, or even cracking open the back of my thick skull; I'd rather that, honestly, as long as hearing the shriek of your voice is not involved. Now, leave me be to my wall-punching so I can empty my mind, then allow me to reintroduce myself with my pristine left hand and an uncanny grin etched across my face.

Last night, I went bed and I fell in a deep sleep; a trance, almost. There was everlasting dream of myself that was just horrifying. It began with a pretty average day, just roaming the streets and minding my own business. But everywhere I turned, people kept giving me these nasty or concerning looks as if I had something on my face. I brushed it off because I really don't care what people think of me. The longer I was in public, the more I got unnerving reactions. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I ran home to look in the mirror, only expecting to see the same face I see everyday. Boy, was I wrong. I almost screamed bloody murder and started clawing at my face. Who is this person? It's not me, how could it be? The eyes were heavy and sunken in, with viscous blood for tears running down the cheeks. That mouth was curled into an aching frown; broke my heart just at the sight of it. This face was ugly, the kind of ugly that makes you cringe. But you can tell this person had been through too much loss and trauma. I couldn't bare to look for half a second longer, mostly because it had some familiarity to it. I started scrubbing my face - which felt soft and clean just like it does any other day - with scorching hot water, hoping to expunge the remnants of all things hideous upon my skin. But every time I glanced back at the mirror I saw the same image again and again. I eventually got so spooked that I threw my fist at the face staring back at me, causing crimson shards of glass to scatter across the bathroom. That's when I woke up. It occurred to me that everything in your dreams are something in real life; something you've experienced before because your brain can't create things on it's own in a dream. That face I saw was a face I had seen before; whose face it belonged to, I wasn't entirely sure about but it scared the shit out of me. Immediately, I ran to the bathroom just as I had in my dream. Bloody murder, I screamed; my face, I was scratching. The person in my dream was the person I saw in the mirror. It was me, and it was my own reflection that I started to recognize. And suddenly, I understood. It all made sense: the face in the mirror wasn't how I actually looked on the outside. It was my subconscious cry out for help on the inside, seeping through my pores and the sockets of my eyes. Each component that was being suppressed just vomited all over my fucking pride. You can't hide your internal being., It will leak on your skin from busted veins, and leave sores in your fragile little eyes, and there is no escaping the stains left on every last stitch of clothing you own. Secrets aren't really secrets when you walk around wearing them on your face.

The worst part about depression is you get so down in the dumps and you hold this constant unsettling feeling deep inside yourself that you can’t get out for the life of you, and after a while you start to forget why you were so sad in the first place. You lose sight of the thing that put a crack in your soul. But healing doesn’t exist here, it just shatters the more you try to fix yourself. Picture quick sand; you take even one step in and you’ll sink. The more you fidget and squirm and reach out for help, the faster and faster - the deeper and deeper - you will sink. It almost seems better to stop putting forth any effort at all. Instead of considering why you took that one last step or why you weren’t watching where you were going, the general thought of suffocation consumes you. Down, down, down you go, and there’s no longer a reason for being sad; you just are.