My head’s in a vice, no way to break this artifice, punishing headache, to make or break it this time.
Maybe the drugs, maybe the illness, weeks of living without fullfilness. Needles tear at my arm as they extract the reason of harm.
I look at the world through half closed eyes, so tired, so mired, so sick of feeling this way. I used to half a lot to say … Now silence. Hiding the violence that rages inside.
Peace is a transient thing, like love on a new wing. I hold back all the tears for everything I could have been, but honestly, you would not believe half of what I’ve seen.
D July 2017