A Heart Of Skeletons

Get lost in the most soul rising book 

A Heart Of Skeletons 

It never stops, the chattering distant voices. The scratching of old scabs, doing your best not to peel them back. To not open old wounds and bleed to the past. The constant choking on black smoke that floats trapped from the shadows we hide. But in this weakened state, we lift the scabs, though we know it bears nothing but pain.

As we stockpile skeleton after skeleton in the deep corners of our hearts. Hoping none shall find them buried beneath a facade of happiness. As we blend to the melodrama of our life, acting as if all is without care. But, the moment we reach our bed, we sigh, we die, we collapse in the tears of our misery. Feeling the scars we bear, speak with no intent to comfort.

Prying at our hearts as if we are deserving of anything pleasurful. That we are but a fragment of our former selves. That even that tiny piece of us that is left, we do not deserve. And we follow these egotistical naive thoughts. We pick up the shovel it hands us, we walk to the furthest forest of our souls. And we dig, we dig till our fingers bleed dry. We dig till we can no longer see the top, till the sky is but a sliver of hope.

We bury ourselves from what we love, from whom we love. We distance our broken self from all those who care. We cringe at any action of sympathy. We carry heavy spirits so that we may drown any emotion that wishes to seep from our flesh. We carry a vial of disease upon our necks, so that others may feel our misery. Though we wish no empathy, we carelessly and selfishly, want others to feel as we do.

So we shatter that vial in a moments notice. If any hope reaches us we break it, we let the disease spread. We let the sickness become us, and we nefariously wish it to infect others. Keeping them at bay of any intervention. We plan for a pandemic of our suffering, to coerce others in our foul speech to be as us.

We are sickened to our core, but truthfully, we want help. But our gluttony for pride keeps us from life. It keeps us from moving on, and so we stare at pictures of our former self. Listening to music that pours our hearts in anguish. We become but bones coated in worry, in anxiety. We see ourselves as nothing more than an ugly frame of meaningless cells. We see ourselves as nothing more than a weight for gravity to pull.

These, are but the thoughts of those who feel broken. And these, are but once the thoughts of myself.
Thank you for reading, if you are going through anything hard, their is nothing wrong with reaching out for help. Don't let it fester, what keeps your soul feeling heavy?

If you want more intimate writings like this, then you should get yourself a copy of 
A Man's Traveled Heart ASAP! :) 

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