Falling Short of Potential
Falling Short of Potential
This can't be , this can't be the will of world?
This monotonous toil of anxiety crippling my senses, like a broken nail bent by a hammer. Leaving me useless to the uses of life and dreams that swell within me.
I have fallen once again to the reaches of a slumberous soul. To a plateau of misery and now taste the spit of depression as I coerce myself to swallow. I fight with envy to be free of these tiresome emotions. But these mono toned voices wish nothing but my desolation of life. To only breathe for the simple pleasure of breath. They find my misery to be joyful, I am a frenzy of pain to be feasted upon by my own mind.
I am a creature of the dark and prefer the warmth of its emptiness, like that of a fungus. I reach to the light, but in reaching, my anxious tongue rips me from the edge. And I fall, I fall in ruin, to a chasm of strain. Where no mouth is open for speaking, where lips are sewn with stitches like one would find upon a wound.
No words of hope find me, I am in a constant fever of falling faith. Losing ambition in my independence, in my creation, in my imagination. I fear loss is what fallows me, like I am its god. But I give it no attention, yet it follows me. Loss follows me with it's repacious friends.
Their names we all know, all too well, for we have felt them all. Misery, Demons, Love, Suffering, and Pity. All waiting at my table with insatiable appetites. With knives sharpened by my stone heart, as I brim with rage to end it all.
But I cannot run, I cannot seem to cast them from my walls. For it is my table they sit at, it is in my kingdom they savor the riches I bring. And though I may be king, they have found the instability in my lands, in my thoughts. They walk among my people like dust, never to be seen, but in light. And though they may be visible in the spring of light, one cannot capture them by hand.
And if one is capable of such a feat, good luck in finding which speck they be. For they hide among others like a lying protein of the mind. Making one go mad, mad like the lost to a small room. A room of no windows, no doors, no soul but ones own.
I am falling to incandescent lobby of the damned with each passing grain of sand. But maybe, in the patience I carry at hand. Death will leave me be, till I find that purpose, that purpose to be.
Are you at lost like me, in this world driven by what we create, by what we see?
Have you ever felt no matter what, you can't seem to reach the potential you want to reach?
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