FeatheredSeclude

Sometimes patience feels like dying, resilience turns into another letdown, an expectation becomes emptiness, anticipation bleeds out, forming another crowd of hollow words. Sometimes I wish I couldn’t hear my thoughts, silence would lead to quiet, a road wouldn’t have a point to break, I’d only have the ground under my feet. - I’d not have to think about stepping over the edge, there wouldn’t be fear of falling, I’d be able to look into the dark, not worrying over what was behind it. I’d walk wherever it took me. Sometimes feeling feels like dying, cutting open every bleeding wound, the red would pool below with I alone as the audience. No words nor conviction, just the declaration of detachment from reality, just for a moment. No false hope nor anticipation, just the black and white turning grey, if only it wasn’t repetitive, just for a moment. - I don’t know if I want a heart that bleeds constantly, or a cold stone no one can harm in my chest. Either medium I am still miserable, one

When does the masquerade become the mandate to maintain, why am I obligated to upkeep a blade dressed as a stain? Watching the pools of red it leaves behind, told to find the good of the coagulated curse. Do I fight for a real change? Do I persist in place? I shouldn’t fantasize about the hurt, but here I am justifying it because I feel it. - Where have I fallen to find comfort in open wounds? Gaining a sense of solace by being harmed, this shouldn’t be the only means to know I am not numb. - As the thoughts entice internalized instability remain, this fine line I tread looks more like the saw’s blade. Am I right to search for the bind, turning over the good for the coagulated curse? I keep coming back for the exchange, obsessing over the embrace. Coaxed in fantasy about the part, so here I am justifying it because I can feel. - Whom am I to coddle the knife that leaves wounds? Losing a sense of reality by inflicted harm, this cannot be the sole means to know I am not numb. - A

I feel a disconnect between how I feel, debating time and time again whether it’s real, should I continue to question why it’s to surreal? It’s easy for me to read and empathize, when it’s another persons’ emotions I can revitalize, yet when I look into a reflection I dematerialize, should I continue to stare and summarize? No matter how I look at it only what isn’t is there, believing all of it is stretched truth till I don’t want to be here, should I continue to be somewhere? Trying to picture where that is leaves me hollow, second-guessing and minimizing everything I swallow, pacing back and forth like an animal in a silo, should I continue to change directions and lie low? - It all lingers like an ache in back of my mind, what do I know anymore when there is nothing to find? Assigned and combined, designed to be left behind, in line to be blind, just to remind, just to confined, undermined and declined. It’s all intertwined and undefined, the only thing refined I see is the clarity