It is on still days that the void seems to be gaping.
It gapes,
It gapes,
Until it feels like it's consuming me whole
And yet it never fills.
It is on still days where my mind fights to contain all the racing thoughts in my not so still mind.
It races,
It races,
Until everything about me becomes so charged and restless, that sitting still may cause me to combust internally.
The stillness is no more and somehow there is no ease.
My brain and body are conflicted by my wandering actions that do not warrant products of being productive.
All my stillness is just my mind no longer at ease.
I am not still.
I am still,
Still,
Searching aimlessly for my peace.
YOU ARE READING
Tangents
PoetryIt's some kind of literary form. Quote me: k.t. Sometimes explaining something does not give it meaning, but leaves it without purpose.
