at the moment



I feel like I've opened myself too much for people.
In other words, I feel like I have become this open book,
people can pick me up and read right through me.

They do read me. Literally.
They come tell me afterward,
"I read what you wrote
I can't stop reading what you write,
It's like, I know who you are even if we just met."
etc, etc, etc.

It's weird.
I guess it's my fault too.
I publish my poems and short stories online.
Almost compulsively.

This is me at the moment.. in rags.
Tired as ever, tired, tired, tired
of everybody, of all the words spoken,
of all the words unspoken.

This is me at the moment.. wishing
I wasn't really here.
Ambitions, too many precious ambitions
No energy, no strength, no patience to fight.

the only thing i could do is write
write these daily thoughts about escape
about another place, about this sadness,
about this bitterness, about all these people
who are so beautiful but so tragically hurt.

sometimes it's too much.
sometimes it's just too much to bear
and sometimes i feel like giving up
completely

my bed is a mess,
it reflects my state of mind
it reflects me - a messy bed
a messy head

then there are those who
randomly walk into my life
in to my head, into my heart
enchant me until i get high,
make me fall in love with them
until i get showered
with sarcasm.


it never seems to end,
it's like a cycle.

that's why I feel like
I should finish the chapter
and call it "The End"

___
sol

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