It is the building up of things overtime
Like the uncontrollable cry
It is the feeling of the overwhelming
piling on your shoulders.
Life swooping down
And crushing you in its talons
It is the dark romantic climax
The finish
The release
The static and the scurry
The overwhelming
The rush the pain the ending
It starts as only an idea in the beginning
But ends up as something unavoidable
The act that is harm
Secret
told to no one
It takes away the care.
Makes you numb.
Saves the day
in the day of darkness.
Who ever thought that such an act of pain,
an act of restriction,
could bring such a peace, relief, control.
Only one thing to focus.
Not a million.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment