A Dying Heart of The Mind
What is it.....this incessant....what is this incessant ache that howls in the eve of my mind? This inane smog of emotion that jerks at the very pulse of my soul. I cannot find reason behind it, at least, that is what I wish to think.
I pretend that what I feel is the result of being, that what I have become is it. That no matter the sprouting of my roots; I will never bear soil with another. That I will simply falter to the settling of what is before me. Some nights I am but a spider; clinging to the walls, waiting for what ever nourishment may fall to my web. Allowing me to nibble at a meager feast to keep me sustained.
My bed side has grown in size, but has shrunk in comfort. My eyes, always stained in the dreary, the gloom of empty arms. Even the moon finds my presence petty, its tongue disgusted in the paltry of my existence.
My narrow view of my heart presents me with no relief. I lay trifled in my own design of a perverse maze. Distracting my longing in the corrupt pleasure of my flesh. Only to end up with a deeper hole within my already barren chest. Burying what hope I have left with each day. Spouting my mind with inconsistent compliments of my ever improving career.
While undermining my prosperity in the contorting and gashing of my own esteem. Plucking my confidence as if it is a weed. I blend well in my workings, but in the presence of heart, for another, I am weak.
I shiver in the mind, listening to its quivering words as it articulates with perfection as to why I am no fit. That I bear no reason for the eyes affection, nor the friendship to even taste the dawning tenderness.
I am become a scowling beast of internal unrest. Unruly have a allowed the shadows to become. Separating my soul an placing it in a box. The key, swallowed in the belly of my beast. I dare not reach, for the wounds of denial never seem to fade. At least, upon my pale skin that is poxed with bumps of obnoxious visuals of stress and isolation.
This incessant ache that pries as my chest and coils my throat. Is an ache I have allowed to build like the conquering of war. Desolating any inhabitants that may bring any opposition to the beast. Insuring we cut them from their limbs and live them torn from their own homes.
I have become the trembling child that shy's in the open of the past. I have become the walking of what many would say not to become. I am what I fear most, and what I fear most of all, is the death of my heart.
Thank you for reading!
What in life has torn you from something you long for?
Looking for more poetic thoughts? A Man's Traveled Heart
Coming soon, The Bleeding of Words
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