I think of death so much, that I wake up a spectacle under the morning light, caught in the trap of life.
In my sleep, there are no dreams but there is also no anger. I've convinced myself so much that this may be better. Instead of trying to catch up with my own breathing, and my own perceived ineptitude.
Do you scare me? you scare me but most of the time so passively. I'm filled with dread, the shape of my spine and heavy as all the things I've yet to feed into, covered in a glove of hate and sweat. I think of death so much before closing my eyes. I am my own illusion and disillusioned on both sides on one road.
Caught in my own throat, sending the message through the light in my window. I'm scared of waking up, for all the feelings I've done the convincing to.
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PoetryTW' trauma dumping read this in an accent, thank you. Yes, all thoughts are authentic but never original. This kills me, so I search. It would kill me less if all authenticity didn't claim healing is a forgetting through the passage of time. That t...
