Feeling upside down, unwilling to say what I really feel.

Unable to think, stopped at a wall, you stand motionless with the exception of the gentle tapping of your left foot on the tiled-floor in rhythm to the music that floats in your head. The same song, seven hours on repeat and you still haven’t gotten sick of it. That is a quality you really like about yourself. Other people overlook it.

Oddly enough you can’t think straight, but you write it all down anyway. Maybe one day it will make sense. Maybe one day the truth will come out. The truth you are the opposite of what you claim to be, that your heart is softer than you make it out to be, that you need someone to love you. But right now that is just not the case. They waste their words; they fall dead before they hit your ears, never to enter, never to seep down from your head into your heart.

You turn pink. He whispered something in your ear. It was far from inappropriate, but you are just that shy. His lips that close to your ear turned you inside out.


Kindly talking behind their back never was wrong; you spoke nothing but good things of them. Too bad you were too scared to say it to their faces. Maybe they would have loved you more, maybe they wouldn’t have left.

Candidly you speak. You shouldn’t, sometimes your words aren’t censored. But now it is too late, and you already let your secret out. You care more than they think you do. You care so much you cry for them when they aren’t there to see you. Your heart can’t take it for much longer. Do something.

Uncomfortable feelings of whiplash are nothing compared to finding all your playing cards in messy piles- don’t they know that you organize them every time before you put them in the box?

Fighting with your eyes closed, fighting all the while. You turn to black sheets of paper with names scribbled out in bright orange colors. Blankets of snow, reflect the sunlight and blind you, you are unable to get past this next hill. It is too steep. It is too steep.

It's you, just you.

Broken, it’s effortless- beyond the hope of recognition, beyond the scope of comprehension. You take it and it gives. You break it and it bends, and still takes shape, and still makes waste. And if all this was left up to you, you would walk away forever. You would never return. This feeling of hopeful asperation, it remains in the corner of a soul that is loved, and you don’t even have that. You can’t even see past the past. It is ever before you. Always following, reminding, tripping you up.

And if this is what you dreamed of being when you were young, then you dreamed too small.

You didn’t challenge the rules like you said you would. You didn’t make fake the towers of conceit, the lies that defeat, the place of unbroken hate.
You claim.
You claim.
You lie.
You lie.
But this has been put in place and still you aren’t sure you believe it, and still you wish you were stronger, but you are not. You are a face that sheds tears unseen, that turns away from friendship because you are too afraid to lend yourself to something that isn’t you, because you can’t be sure of keeping it whole. It depends too much on them. You can’t see past yourself, you refuse to let people help, you can’t answer all the questions or didn’t you know that? You can’t save face this time. They can see right through you. They told you last night. Instead of change, you decided to hide even further away. You will remain here in this place. And you will be forgotten, because you can’t be remembered for something you weren’t. You can’t be sheltered from all hurt, but you try your damnest. And you fight the thing that gives you life. You defeat yourself. You do it, no one else. No blaming anyone. It’s you, just you.

Complacent confusion

Take it back summertime. I remember when you wholly belonged to me, when I didn’t care, when I was good without trying, when every thought came easy, when I didn’t feel the need to recognize my romantic self Oh “feelings”, “feelings”, “feelings” I wish you would go away.
And now what? …that gradually growing feeling of complete inadequacy is slowly heaping itself upon my head and soon I won’t be able to breathe. I don’t know if I like it very much. I don’t know if I’m cut out for this life of endless hoops and back road mazes. “Feeling” lost. Why do they get to decide what is right and wrong? Hypocrites, the lot of them. They claim they want you to grow and become more than you are, but is it true growth when they point in only one direction and tell you that you must go that way? I don’t think it is as “liberating” as the claim. I laugh at them, and they don’t know it. Maybe one day I’ll have the courage to challenge them to their faces, but for now who am I? What do I know? I think I am with Mann on this one. “It is a fact that there is no society in the world so dumb and hopeless as a circle of literary people who are hounded to death as it is. All knowledge is old and tedious to them. Utter some truth that it gave you considerable youthful joy to conquer and possess- and they will chortle at you for your naïveté…literature is a wearing job. In human society, I do assure you, a reserved and skeptical man can be taken for stupid, whereas he is really only arrogant and perhaps lacks courage. So much for ‘knowledge’.”

This feeling of indifference is not motivational. I can’t see past the second page of this tattered book because the remainder has gone missing. They stand alone, in another room, where unseen eyes guard them every hour. To be beyond this place would be relief, a thing I can’t currently possess. Creep up, creep up, and crush me down, I dare you.