a swirling mass of thoughts
a feeling of incompletion
and a sense
of no direction

spending nights awake
letting consciousness fade
and all days
go to waste

held in a stasis
waiting
for my catharsys

swaying side to side
trapped in this lullaby
frozen in time

the winds are cold as ice
like the fog in the sky
with no end in sight

not feeling fine
but happy
to fly

in this melancholic
state of mind

Saltwater rushes over warm sands,
refreshing the heat.
I part the ocean with my hands
while trying not to weep.
This memory;
so sweet,
so far away,
so faded,
my last good memory.
Winds still bring the ocean breeze
to me
wherever I be and
warm tears rushes over cheeks.

I long for love.
Don't we all?
But this is different, I don't want to be loved.
I want to love.
Isn't that the same thing?
No.
To be loved is to perceived,
to be known,
to be seen,
to be held.
I don't want any of those things,
I'm terrified of that.
To love is to perceive,
to know,
to see,
to hold.
I want all of those things,
I ache for that.
But to have one, you need the other.
Then,
I'd rather have none.

nothing compares to a breath of fresh air, although i can only feel it in dreams,
for my reality is filled with despair.
i wish i could see you
my love,
know you
my love,
but you too can only be found
while i wander the oniric expanses of my mind
as flimsy as the air i seek
and needed as such
forever out of reach and
never mine to keep

the sky was blue
birds that looked like
strokes of black ink
painted their way through the air,
the golden sun glinting off of their inky brushstroke wings
proud and defiant
like a person who knows their mind

i laid on the deck, face-up
camera in hand
trying to capture
these fleeting beings of freedom
only for the paint to drip too fast
ending up blurred in the lens,
but those golden glints,
snapped and stored away forever

i used to spend a long time with you and thinking about you.
i would write and sing yarns and threads of your life.
we busied ourselves for hours, days, away from
just about whatever it was that kept me sad.
it seems like a lot of years have passed
and even though we're still so close
it seems more and more like i,
just can't spare the effort to.
i love you and always will
don't think that changes
but i can't write letters
or play pretend with,
all my secret friends
i just feel tired yet,
not forgotten or
alone or lost or
is there a way,
an expression
of how wiser
but without
motivation
i feel now?

maybe just
fully lucid
and aware
the clarity
of a mind
only idle
that life
my life
wasn't
worth
much
at all.
how
sad.

and that it wasn't worth the fatigue it took to get here. but what can i do? i am at a dead-end, there is nowhere to go. if i write a longer line, i break the trend. the trend wasn't even very good to begin with. i think a few of those lines are too long for the pattern. i spent some minutes trying to resolve them but i wasn't satisfied.

in truth, though it often takes that idled age to realize, past the self-conscious judgement and harsh, masochistic self-critique
the point is not to be unique or force anything.
it's to express the heart,
because that's not something anyone gets to do very often, especially not to strangers.

if i've gone long past being frightened of death or spiders, i'd expect some words to not spur my anxiety so much.

anxiety is just that; fear of my, your own unreasonable expectations
not the fear of being ridiculed, or the complex fear of success;
not even a fear of being hated, or forgotten and never remembered
it's the fear of never being known to even be forgotten
that awful dreadful horror of not being noticed at all.
not becoming stronger as an individual, but less.
and it can be fatal.