I feel the familiar pain in my throat. This abuse is getting old, but the relief in my head grows and grows and I don't know which is worth more. See, I don't want to go home, so I wander in my head and along these roads for hours that seem like minutes and nights that feel like days. Let me count the ways that I've tried to motivate myself with nothing to show for it and no proof from any of it. If life is like a box of chocolates, then I got the munchies and ate all of them and the stomach ache that followed has done nothing but paralyze me for two years and counting. Its as if this house is burning around me, but I can't bring myself to see it through all this smoke. So I wait it out, writing it down with pen and paper, using paragraphs to personify everything I don't want to see as wasted time. I'm sick of feeling fine as my life withers by like these ashes in front of my eyes. I used to think that made me strong, but now I realize what I've become
NUMB
So I'm done using paper in a way that leaves leafs burning like the questions that I've left unanswered. I'm done rolling up and packing down a feeling just to avoid thinking about who I've been being. I want to find my motivation. I want to learn about concentration. I want to stop feeling so paranoid and holding my tongue in reservation, so that when I'm dead or my mind has gone, the words that it produced will live on and maybe someone will finally believe that the blood that's in my veins isn't as black as the tar that I used to hold it in for so long.