Post by Kyle Stockholm on Jul 21, 2013 1:11:02 GMT -5
Bleed.
Start with a room.
Dark, small, but not too small, and comfy.
That's right, cozy.
Just small enough to keep you in and keep them out,
perfect atmosphere with mood-reflective lighting
and the fan is on high.
Its night time, right?
dark outside, lit in here.
its not as easy to think in the sun,
melts your feelings and your cares.
Everyone is vulnerable at night
and emotions are easily expressed
through much needed tears into pillow cases.
Midnight,
a quarter past, in fact.
Laptop light drains your eyes and makes them red
but you don't care
because you can't sleep
and if you tried
you'd just get worse
and drain again.
You'll rock back and forth a lot,
feel a weight that keeps you planted
but only heavy enough for your lower half
because who knows where your head is.
The weight hurts.
But...
it doesn't.
Its annoying, a pain that you can live with
but you'd rather not.
And thinking about it only makes it worse because really
what's worse than knowing?
It feels like wanting.
Like needing and like dying.
Its like a migraine,
but in your stomach.
Does that make sense?
Of course not
but nothing does anyway, does it?
It feels like love left out in the rain
but turn your head a half inch to the left and it feels like love kept warm by the stove top.
Stare into the glowing apple emblem and suddenly
its magic
and its a whole new world and you're ready to face the man
but drop your gaze
and there's a rush to your face
of blood and tears and fire
and you drain.
Unplugged,
uncensored and stifled sobs of sorrow that no one,
no one,
will know about.
Because tears dry.
They stain, they don't leave,
but they dry.
Invisible.
They're not what you have to worry about.
What you have to worry about is when that weight gets so heavy
when it gets to the point where you can't eat,
can't sleep,
can't feel and frankly don't want to.
When your tears turn to blood
and they leak from every pore in your body
and out your eyes
and onto paper
in scribbled letters and desperate semicolons with excruciatingly painful commas
that separate words
rather than end sentences
and keep the paragraph flowing because you're so afraid of the end
and what's around that corner and you
stop.
Hands in the air,
pain on the floor,
head tipped back and eyes closed
shut.
You scream.
Silently,
and your ears will bleed.
Is that what it feels like?
Is that what it feels like to know?
To think?
To have a brain at all?
But you'll fall asleep soon.
Your pillow may be wet and your eyes may be dry,
but your ears will clot
and you'll sleep,
only to awake to a new day,
another day,
a new try,
and another night to come.
Is that what its like?
Is that what its like?
Start with a room.
Dark, small, but not too small, and comfy.
That's right, cozy.
Just small enough to keep you in and keep them out,
perfect atmosphere with mood-reflective lighting
and the fan is on high.
Its night time, right?
dark outside, lit in here.
its not as easy to think in the sun,
melts your feelings and your cares.
Everyone is vulnerable at night
and emotions are easily expressed
through much needed tears into pillow cases.
Midnight,
a quarter past, in fact.
Laptop light drains your eyes and makes them red
but you don't care
because you can't sleep
and if you tried
you'd just get worse
and drain again.
You'll rock back and forth a lot,
feel a weight that keeps you planted
but only heavy enough for your lower half
because who knows where your head is.
The weight hurts.
But...
it doesn't.
Its annoying, a pain that you can live with
but you'd rather not.
And thinking about it only makes it worse because really
what's worse than knowing?
It feels like wanting.
Like needing and like dying.
Its like a migraine,
but in your stomach.
Does that make sense?
Of course not
but nothing does anyway, does it?
It feels like love left out in the rain
but turn your head a half inch to the left and it feels like love kept warm by the stove top.
Stare into the glowing apple emblem and suddenly
its magic
and its a whole new world and you're ready to face the man
but drop your gaze
and there's a rush to your face
of blood and tears and fire
and you drain.
Unplugged,
uncensored and stifled sobs of sorrow that no one,
no one,
will know about.
Because tears dry.
They stain, they don't leave,
but they dry.
Invisible.
They're not what you have to worry about.
What you have to worry about is when that weight gets so heavy
when it gets to the point where you can't eat,
can't sleep,
can't feel and frankly don't want to.
When your tears turn to blood
and they leak from every pore in your body
and out your eyes
and onto paper
in scribbled letters and desperate semicolons with excruciatingly painful commas
that separate words
rather than end sentences
and keep the paragraph flowing because you're so afraid of the end
and what's around that corner and you
stop.
Hands in the air,
pain on the floor,
head tipped back and eyes closed
shut.
You scream.
Silently,
and your ears will bleed.
Is that what it feels like?
Is that what it feels like to know?
To think?
To have a brain at all?
But you'll fall asleep soon.
Your pillow may be wet and your eyes may be dry,
but your ears will clot
and you'll sleep,
only to awake to a new day,
another day,
a new try,
and another night to come.
Is that what its like?
Is that what its like?
