Half-finished journals,

Half-finished words,

I wish I could twist a 

Full story out of myself

      (A form of pervasive yoga, in an aide to help release a part of me onto paper).

Every time I try to write,

It sounds childish

Soaked in a bloody pool of angst

I wish I could rise above it.

My mind is filled with cobwebs

Superglued to stick

Between my thoughts and 

Make them sound mundane

        (Until my thoughts are trapped and rotted and they’ll stink up my skull until the trash is taken out)

And if my thoughts are quite normal

If I am not a new figure

Then what is the point

Of writing at all?

How can we live with ourselves

Knowing we won’t rise above 

Our world 

With flaming wings?

Do you know how painful it is 

To feel words written on your bones

But to know you will never 

Be able to properly write them out? 

       (I guess I’ll just pick at my bones till I break down the tendons and my body collapses). 

I guess I’ll just pick at my bones till I break down the tendons and my body collapses.

Maybe then I’ll be tended to

Maybe then I’ll be tender.