➡ [ original: poetry prose ]
Series: Original
Rated: G
Summary: UNFINISHED
Disclaimer: © arttype
Title:
I don't want to say words have left me but they have. I don't want to say feeling has left me, but I wake up in the morning sore and tired most days. Angry and incomprehensible the next. I feel like a trigger, a fuse for a bomb in the quiet of your turned down mouth. The only thing that touches me now is the silence of the night, where darkness is our blanket and everything important is within our reach; everything unimportant all far away.
But it's the other way around, you know. You hold the things close to you that mean nothing to anyone else, even when your words battle for their ears. You push away what importance is, what importance has equaled to.
What importance should've never been.
I'm running around in triangles, going from one point to the next before I come back to where I've started. Sharp and pointed in my gut, the feeling of anxiety as strong as the smell of bitter coffee. A wake up call, the smell of unpleasant chemicals to your brain forcing your senses to react.
How do you live? How do you value the profit of your life? Where is the meaning in the neutralized terms that the world has made for us to use to describe the fulfillment of who you are?
Tell me, who are you?
Where are you going?
Who are you running from?
We are all running from demons. None of us expect to go back. We do anyway. What's up with that?
Here, let's take another approach. If ambition is a person, they have left you in the dust. If knowledge is a person, they have forsaken you for money. If morals in a person, they are homeless and abandoned. If patience is a person, they are getting impatient. If courage is a person, they are a child still learning to stand. If happiness is a person, they are far away.
Rated: G
Summary: UNFINISHED
Disclaimer: © arttype
Title:
I don't want to say words have left me but they have. I don't want to say feeling has left me, but I wake up in the morning sore and tired most days. Angry and incomprehensible the next. I feel like a trigger, a fuse for a bomb in the quiet of your turned down mouth. The only thing that touches me now is the silence of the night, where darkness is our blanket and everything important is within our reach; everything unimportant all far away.
But it's the other way around, you know. You hold the things close to you that mean nothing to anyone else, even when your words battle for their ears. You push away what importance is, what importance has equaled to.
What importance should've never been.
I'm running around in triangles, going from one point to the next before I come back to where I've started. Sharp and pointed in my gut, the feeling of anxiety as strong as the smell of bitter coffee. A wake up call, the smell of unpleasant chemicals to your brain forcing your senses to react.
How do you live? How do you value the profit of your life? Where is the meaning in the neutralized terms that the world has made for us to use to describe the fulfillment of who you are?
Tell me, who are you?
Where are you going?
Who are you running from?
We are all running from demons. None of us expect to go back. We do anyway. What's up with that?
Here, let's take another approach. If ambition is a person, they have left you in the dust. If knowledge is a person, they have forsaken you for money. If morals in a person, they are homeless and abandoned. If patience is a person, they are getting impatient. If courage is a person, they are a child still learning to stand. If happiness is a person, they are far away.