Silence after silence sets my mood.
I circled the roots of life stumbling again only to be resurrected by a brand new day hoping the sunlight will amend my woes. A rare sweet hot December air fills the room, rare indeed.
Enter the chilling sensation of the routine, because without it I’d be departing the world of sanity wishing to spend my days incarcerated in a room, nurses checking up on me every 30 minutes. I savor the shallowness of the earth; it is sour and hurtful, a dead man’s voice in the background, these tongues fly around through the day, I starve any hopes of a call, a letter, any sign that someone notices my stricken illness.
My emotions suffocate any creeds in the heart. I am not as eloquent as I wish I could be, the foreign language holds me back, making me fearful of expressing further ideas to those who could understand it.
Very quietly I melt like sugar on fire, the grains so beautiful, the crystals as white as snow turning into a wonderful pain, transformed through fire.
As usual, I expect so much from others, but nothing happens.
The distance comes back to me; I do not know what’s real anymore, I panic becoming sad, passive, and happy in between. I’m neurotic; my voice shuts down from drugs.
It is awful to scream and not to be heard, entangled by the false pretense of true fellowship, so desperate to be loved.