Thoughts on what is to come
overwhelm me with fears;
I even forget who I once was
blind to that bitterness, my dull delusions.
There is a cloud called calm
in which I build my strength.
Reclining in the softness of hope,
I hold at heart no doubt
but when my mind grows dim,
I curl in my damp dugout of doubt
–dull delusions stifling my dreams.
I often forget to exist,
thinking about one day being.
I lose focus on the real meaning
and lose myself in the meaning.
I want to pull back the curtain,
the illusion that is defined by breathing:
To get through the pain,
the all consuming pulse of hate,
I remind myself that I am only dreaming
Throwback to the beginning of my senior year, this is a poem I wrote way back in September.
” Me and the pen, we are one. If its ink would cease to flow, my ink would cease to flow.”