Whispers of The Soul: Poems and Musings

Trapped

I'm ensnared, trapped in this place, and it's not just the physical walls that confine me. No, it's the prison in my own head, the tangled labyrinth where thoughts chase each other like ghosts in the dark. I ache to flee, to escape to a place far, far away, where I can toss my phone aside and simply vanish for a while. It's not a desire to escape life entirely, but rather a desperate need to elude the clutches of my own mind.

Because here, in the quiet solitude, I'm terrified of what I might find. I don't want to be alone with my thoughts, but I know I must learn to navigate this loneliness without succumbing to the chaos within me. In the end, we all walk this path alone, and I've come to realize that no one can save me but myself.

My frustration boiled over, and I lashed out, my hand now throbbing in pain from the force of my anger. As the lyrics of NF's music resonate in my ears, I find solace in the knowledge that sharing this pain, these raw emotions, makes me feel less alone. Yet, deep down, I understand that even in this shared suffering, I'm still grappling with the stark solitude of my own mind.

I convince myself that my feelings, my pain, are insignificant in the grand scheme of things. After all, I have a good life, don't I? What right do I have to feel this desolate when others face hardships far more severe? And so, the weight of isolation compounds, leaving me drowning in self-inflicted guilt.

I'm spiraling, and I know it. But escaping this vortex seems impossible. I'm lost, and I despise this sensation of being adrift, for I cannot discern a path out of this torment. I'm wading through misery, even though there are moments of goodness in my life. It's just that the ones that gnaw at me seem to outweigh the positives.

I berate myself for not appreciating the gift of life, for failing to see the beauty in the ordinary. Yet, what can I do when not even my own mother wants to engage with me? So here I sit, seeking solace in the warmth of a heater, attempting to substitute its embrace for the touch of human connection. But a heater is an inanimate object, incapable of replacing the tenderness of love or the solace of understanding.

Beyond these walls, the night beckons, and part of me yearns to venture out, to escape the confines of my own thoughts. But the fear of venturing into the unknown alone, under the veil of night, holds me back. And so, I remain, trapped in this battle between the world outside and the tempest raging within.

T.