Plague of Words

I haven't stopped looking behind me in a way I could only describe as bleak and fractured. It feels as if nothing of importance has happened.

My disassociation skill feels more like a parasite gnawing at my brain, diluting my memories, taking them away as I pretend I'm somewhere else,

I want to see the teenager who'd mindlessly stare out the window of the bus. See the teenager half-heartedly listen as the teacher goes over stuff from a curriculum, stuck in a daydream consisting of fantasy worlds.

The fresh young adult who doesn't know what to do for the future. The one who's missing the past is dying to get an ounce of childhood back and wanting to make something of the future an internal war.

I want to see what was truly most important to me the good and the bad what shaped me the most either from painful lessons to happy moments that guided dark days with a small dim light.

I'm still young and yet I'm wondering what the end is like, not when. oh I do hope I live my life to the fullest it can be.

A home I thought only existed in fantasies.

But the people I confide in,

I unfortunately have let it happen every time.

My mind has had its fun of tormenting for the day

It's time to rest and wait until the next cycle.

To simply be held and coddled like a fragile soul that has been at a constant ache for ages.

At one moment then,

feel so deeply disturbed

I have to make my thoughts

Become a physical pain.

It's only a temporary release,

And others,

I'm trapped inside of it,

In

Silent

Heartache,

With

Agony

The next day I grieved with sadness,

The next week I felt despair,

The next month I felt hopeless,

Now it's a constant change of feelings, emotions

Despair, agony, helplessness, hopelessness, anger, hatred, fear.

I can't seem to get out of the dangerous mind pit

The organ that controls the whole body as one.

Majority of the time is on autopilot, breathing, blinking

It's functioning constantly to keep the body alive.

The brain can't seem to understand the concept of not existing, it doesn't know what life after death is.

Perhaps one decided to criticize a choice they had made and another person witnessed it,they turned to speak that phrase to lighten the mood in the atmosphere.

This phrase is true for many people who are day-dreamers with the sun and then turn to be thinking with the moon hanging in the night sky.

These are the ones who realize they're drowning in the past mistakes, the grieving stage with a constant lingering ghost speaking of their mistakes as they lie awake with the moon gazing sadly through the clouds.

I am one of these I sink into my past memories remembering my biggest, my smallest mistakes, the people I've lost due to these mistakes. Rather from my blindness from my hatred, anger or, my fear that was filled with adrenaline of overthinking.

I have the moon as my sole witness to me drowning in my sorrows and grieving, the moon has always felt as if it would never judge me for my mistakes, just simply to watch over the night thinkers with an ounce of curiosity and sadness lingering in its rays of light.

The moon has enough reason to tell me I am my own worst critic, I know I wouldn't be able to deny the words. she would know, she has seen me filled with teary eyes one too many times, for her not to be right.

The river was meant to be uncrossable, all of this to keep what was inside safe from the harsh truth of life, of reality.

Yet one person had got in they were so easy to trust, so easy to breathe around and feel so content and at peace with.

The safe haven that I had built, had a flaw.. I had managed to forget that I was no longer alone in my haven of safety, haven of blissful ignorance, that I forgot it was not only to protect me but the ones who had brought peaceful interactions protected as well.

It had failed to protect them, I had failed at keeping them at peace to keep their safety assured.

How we haven't talked in weeks, months even

That even with that fact floating around my mind, each and every day that passes.

I somehow manage to see and hear daily things such as, music, food, colors, even feeling something warm and soft or even seeing someone do what you used to, say something you used to say,

It's a little blurred but if you look through the lines,

You can see the old ones that were once fresh.

Now they lay faded, covered now with a shield of new ones that litter the skin a dark and little pink here and there they lie exposed to my sight,

The action I've committed brings only temporary relief, a relief I thought I would no longer seek out, and indulge in.

The past has always risen, bubbling up to the surface, facing off with the suffering and barely winning, a win none the less.