Last Ditch Effort.
I haven't posted in a very long time, knowing that friends that I have trouble seeing with my new job have either slowly slipped away or just cant get ahold of them. I haven't spoken whats been going through my head, only the confusion riddled within it and its only come out as blabbered words, but right now, speaking is all I feel will comfort me.
I sugar coat far too many things, and as a new leaf is being changed right now, so is the way I need to realise I have to drive down into my new life now.
I'm not happy with my life, as many people are and of course can understand how easy that is to say. I have designed, crafted and sculpted this world around me and now that I step back to admire it, I feel tears coming to my eyes cause the positives cant outweight the negatives of this artpiece called life.
Looking at it all I can see is an aura of hate, sense of despair.
Its face feels drained, the amount of effort some days to push a smile is making my muscles cramp, my mind swimming with the re-attained world of my depression again, my nights are faced with the laughing space of my tendancies to feel death is at my door and my doing.
Its eyes are blank, being both niave and lost as to not explain why was I so blind to so many things, as if stepping in a life of shroud and always falling over. I look to the good, what I have, the possibilities of what I want can be achieved, but its like seeing the finish line as you start to lose your breath, choking, gasping for it then stumbling to a stop, my life fading out because I cant see clearly.
The mind looks poisoned, my life in the country placed me far too into peoples hands, peoples emmotions, as that helped with the good times, it is cutting me down in the bad times. I used to be so good at pulling back up to my feet, but now, these times, I'm struggling to raise to one knee, my head has never felt so low walking home, like I want to close my eyes and hear the sound of a horn seconds from impact.
The mouth in that state of a cry where you feel you are letting out your soul in a scream for despair, the cry which nothing comes out but the soft spits of air stumbling on your bottom lip.
The arms are reaching, stretched so far out they look cracked at the joints, but for what? I had what I wanted but I decided it wasn't meant to be, and it wont go away until I feel that again, right now it looks like never is the right word. The fingers near touching each other as if they are almost ready to take hold but destined to slip out every time. Stiff, clutching on something that was there, but slipped through the lifeless digits.
The Chest looking heaved and see-through, like so much of me has been, as I could look down and see my front, see the internal scars I have allowed to happen from others and of my own self destruction. Worst of all, the sense that my heart feels dry, once dripping with feelings that I could never express, now lacks so many I am begging to feel some of them again. To beg for that, knows a life of pain is easily walking to my door with a hearty press to the doorbell.
This dry feeling has never felt so aware then when I was asked by more then a few people what do I feel as love, what do I think love really is. I hid from that question so much, I coward at it, question that has and can destroy me so easily, the fear reaking from it because I knew.. I knew that the answer to that would shatter me so bad I'm cutting myself on my own emmotional shards.
But I still hold those shards, even as they cut me deep and continue to feel the sting and pain of them grasped in my tight grip. Because those people, I fight myself for, because they mean something to me.
To those that believe I'm special, you dont know how much thats keeping me alive, and you all know it because I tell it to you, show it, as I do to myself when that unsteady knee is about to collapse.
I need a joy to look towards, to live for, the ones I am dreaming of are too far away, as perfect as they are, I've been in that situation, I need a dream to live for tomorrow, next week, something.
So now the question is set upon myself, I am the creator of my life, and I have a chisel set to change the face of it, but will the creation kill the creator, or will my life progess to make it a work of magic.
I sugar coat far too many things, and as a new leaf is being changed right now, so is the way I need to realise I have to drive down into my new life now.
I'm not happy with my life, as many people are and of course can understand how easy that is to say. I have designed, crafted and sculpted this world around me and now that I step back to admire it, I feel tears coming to my eyes cause the positives cant outweight the negatives of this artpiece called life.
Looking at it all I can see is an aura of hate, sense of despair.
Its face feels drained, the amount of effort some days to push a smile is making my muscles cramp, my mind swimming with the re-attained world of my depression again, my nights are faced with the laughing space of my tendancies to feel death is at my door and my doing.
Its eyes are blank, being both niave and lost as to not explain why was I so blind to so many things, as if stepping in a life of shroud and always falling over. I look to the good, what I have, the possibilities of what I want can be achieved, but its like seeing the finish line as you start to lose your breath, choking, gasping for it then stumbling to a stop, my life fading out because I cant see clearly.
The mind looks poisoned, my life in the country placed me far too into peoples hands, peoples emmotions, as that helped with the good times, it is cutting me down in the bad times. I used to be so good at pulling back up to my feet, but now, these times, I'm struggling to raise to one knee, my head has never felt so low walking home, like I want to close my eyes and hear the sound of a horn seconds from impact.
The mouth in that state of a cry where you feel you are letting out your soul in a scream for despair, the cry which nothing comes out but the soft spits of air stumbling on your bottom lip.
The arms are reaching, stretched so far out they look cracked at the joints, but for what? I had what I wanted but I decided it wasn't meant to be, and it wont go away until I feel that again, right now it looks like never is the right word. The fingers near touching each other as if they are almost ready to take hold but destined to slip out every time. Stiff, clutching on something that was there, but slipped through the lifeless digits.
The Chest looking heaved and see-through, like so much of me has been, as I could look down and see my front, see the internal scars I have allowed to happen from others and of my own self destruction. Worst of all, the sense that my heart feels dry, once dripping with feelings that I could never express, now lacks so many I am begging to feel some of them again. To beg for that, knows a life of pain is easily walking to my door with a hearty press to the doorbell.
This dry feeling has never felt so aware then when I was asked by more then a few people what do I feel as love, what do I think love really is. I hid from that question so much, I coward at it, question that has and can destroy me so easily, the fear reaking from it because I knew.. I knew that the answer to that would shatter me so bad I'm cutting myself on my own emmotional shards.
But I still hold those shards, even as they cut me deep and continue to feel the sting and pain of them grasped in my tight grip. Because those people, I fight myself for, because they mean something to me.
To those that believe I'm special, you dont know how much thats keeping me alive, and you all know it because I tell it to you, show it, as I do to myself when that unsteady knee is about to collapse.
I need a joy to look towards, to live for, the ones I am dreaming of are too far away, as perfect as they are, I've been in that situation, I need a dream to live for tomorrow, next week, something.
So now the question is set upon myself, I am the creator of my life, and I have a chisel set to change the face of it, but will the creation kill the creator, or will my life progess to make it a work of magic.