She hears the shrills of her mind cry with seething agony. The world feels of lonely burdens and recluse feelings. Leaving her numb to the expectation of self. Her skin pulls taught at each moment of breath.
A ceiling of falling emotions cloud her heart. Her eyes pale to the moonlight. She is quiet in her words but loud in her head. She walks with a smile upon her face as she knows it is fake. Popping pills to feel okay. Listening to music to drown out the pain but nothing keeps her in frame.
She buckles the moment she is home from work. Her house in shambles from neglect as faces of sadness seep from the walls. Tears fall, but no relief is given as her pillow is her only companion to console.
She knows her heart is bitter in the lonesome wails of her past. But so bruised, so scarred, she is held by rigid fear. Her own family she has distanced as the pain is only thing she knows. Her face, in a perpetual drama of shame, of guilt.
She is dramatic in her heart, this she knows. But she is burdened, cold, alone in the thoughts of her own. Her own home is despicable to herself, she sees filth, grim that clutters her steps. But weakness, a frail mind is at the forefront of action.
She feels this is everlasting, shadows and memories wilting with petals of blood. So she takes stock in hiding among the misery. Stalking the former of her heart. Lurking like a rejected daughter by her own father.
Weeping she finds this peaceful, helpful, but only for a moment before her heart fills once again with the terrible. Shrieks of sufferings past as it scathed her veins with pricks of blame. Chains rattle as her body sprains.
She feels lame, miserable, useless in each passing day. She strains to remain affectionate, even to herself. The cleansing of her skin is burdensome in the wake of the morning. A struggle to place limb to water and lather with spring.
Aching she is bleeding emotion but in silence. Her bottle of pills is leaving her slowly with no thrill. An addiction to disappear seems better than battling these emotional swings. Doting her struggles with madness, finding no connection no end.
But she allows herself to swim with no wings and drink with no reason to cease. The casual suffocation of her lungs under the flickering city street light sea; is her only true moment of peace. But quickly lifted is the feeling of peace for it is paid only as a lease.
As it is fictionally, temporarily, a fantasy built of man, anxiety peers its flirting head. She is no stranger to its eyes but it lies so well in the faltering of her fears. So she steers with with eyes wide and crashes, tumbling, falling, into the frosting of her soul.
All she is needing, is to be bold, and throw away the old. For it is okay to become something other than what everyone knows.
We fall victim to our own, our own pain, misery, past, mistakes, and pain. But we must find ways to move passed it all. To not hide with with temporary remedies, remedies we know only makes it worse.
What are you holding in that is hurting you?
Maybe you can find something you can relate to in, A Man's Traveled Heart
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