Relapse.

"Saturday, June 2
Very Old Poem

This is an old poem I wrote a few years ago. I wanted to share it with you just to show myself how far I've come in the past couple years. Interpert however you wish.


Lies.
Not white ones,
ones that no one knows
the truth of.
You're not even sure what
the real thing is.
You've spent too much time
living lies.

Eventually I crack.
I can't take it.
I don't want to start over,
because I know I'll break.
I'd rather leave,
leave everything behind.
That way I would cause
no more anything.
I've confused, ruined and misguided
so many people and lives.
Not to mention my own.
There's no trust, no love, nothing.
I'm so alone, so far away,
yet so close and distanced.
This has to end.
Just pretend
there was no beginning
and don't remember me ever.
Again.

I'm so broken,
all confused.
No one's here to guide me.
I want someone else's shoes.
I need to heal the open wounds,
yet protect the mended scars.

I'm moving too fast.
I never liked waterfalls.
RUSH
Not fun, not even close,
they pull you under,
pretend you're having fun.
But then it all changes.
You can see, hear, feel.
But you're ending, collapsing.
It's all over.
You're at the bottom.
No one's holding you down.
But you just don't want to see.
You refuse to breathe.

Main stream was never my thing.
I was proud of little things, and
envious of larger ones.
I didn't want to be, or so they thought.
I had dreams.
Feelings too.
But you were too distraught.
Why should you care?
I'm just another tear
in this so un-perfect life.
We ignore things we don't want,
and excentuate the things we do.
Why be real?
Why be yourself?
You won't be accepted.
You're all alone.
How does it feel now?

Hide and jump.
Say you're sorry.
Believe in everything.
Feel and express.
Shout and whisper.
Be kind and rude.
Have willpower to give up easily.
Possibilities are limited.

Death is morbid.
Morbid is death.

What colour's your angel?

Rambling provided by Hannah sometime in the vicinity of 4:18 PM "



This poem was written a very long time ago.
My thoughts have now relapsed. I am feeling these things again. And it's scaring me.
This poem was so close to my heart, so raw, when I wrote it. Now, again, I feel very connected.
I don't want that to happen.
I think I'm relapsing into my old self.