it's what keeps us alive,
yet it breaks us.

we feel too much,
at the wrong time,
in the wrong way,
for the wrong people.

we suffer for it,
but we make art,
and meaning,
and love.

**** addiction,
**** the cravings,
**** the fake comfort,
**** the way it lies to you.

**** the human brain,
for having the ability to rewire itself.
**** the human brain,
for it to be able to say:
"this is the new normal".

the smoke from me is a bubble,
a repellant of sorts,
unspoken words from me,
saying no need to come by,
there's nothing to be said.

this is too much to be felt,
too much
to be contained,
too much
to be expressed,
too much
to bear.

i'm not weak,
i'm not scared,
but i can't walk any further.

i'll try anyways,
for there is nowhere else to go.

i carve pieces of myself,
laid bare,
not for people to understand,
but for people to see themselves in me.

feel free to carve your own,
lay yourselves bare,
people may never understand,
but at least you'll see yourself,
and what you've gone through.

how do you sit so comfortable in your own skin,
how do you wake up,
make coffee, answer emails,
and call that living?

how do you fill a calendar,
with meetings and birthdays,
and convince yourself,
that this is enough?

you said this will do,
this monotonous rigidity,
this painful cycle,
these hollow choices?

i'm clawing at walls you don't see,
choking on a silence you guys call "peace".

how do you not burn from the inside out,
knowing there is more?