Entry 2: Little Children

There is no pill to take that will suffice the awful void that occupies my every pore. I want to be a child again when all the world is yours for the taking, instead of the world taking you. Bright eyed and tiny fingers pressed against the window watching the world exist on the other side of the looking glass. I wonder.

Children dancing in the park is romantically reminicent of my youth, when my days were filled with nothing but hope, instead of dissatisfaction and the taste for something more than what life has fed me.
Children that have yet to be heartbroken or broken by a lack of heart; known to war in and outside their homes and themselves; that have yet to find out how lies to others and more importantly, themsleves, become first nature, upon securing their identity. Instead they dance carefully inside the luminous glow upon the perfect grass as the evening breeze parts it ever so slightly.
Their mothers and their fathers keep them safe at night until its time for them to leave home and then the world will unleash its tongue and eat them of everything that once was pure and innocent and made some sense. The way it did once to me.

I relish in the fact that one day someone will wrap their arms around me and tell me everything will be okay. The way a parent nurses their child upon a fall and scrape of a knee or an elbow.
But today is not that day.

Neither will be tomorrow.

Entry 1: The Melody Of A Broken Wing

The ticking clock rapes the silence that has befriended me into the current state of which I exist. It is not enough of the cherry blossoms dangling from the tree branches; the crisp in the air creeping through the window, nor the sunlight dancing across the walls or the twittering of birds between one another, that can lift the pregnant dark shadow that skins itself deep in my thoughts.

I have exercised the ways to deafen the words that sing in my ears like a broken needle kissing a vinyl record. But I am human, alive and all things otherwise prone to linger on the past and that torture oneself slowly into an incredible abyss of self pity and despair.

The words swim from your mouth, rolling effortlessly off your tongue, with no recognition of remorse or regret. “I can’t be with you’s and “I need time for myself’s” are wonderfully orchestrated like an accomplished symphony. Your once magnetic green eyes look so empty and straight into mine without the life or hope they once did. With my heart ripped from my body, held in your hands, the blood drains from my veins as you walk away and out of my life.

Lifeless in this place, unable to move, breathe, sleep, eat, remove the increasingly romantic disease from the depths of my thoughts, you are never far behind as I want to wish nothing but good things when I know that’s not what is impregnating yours.

I forget sometimes why I am here to endure what is left of my very being. My feet firmly on the ground instead of the ledge, but the ledge is never far from my thoughts, or temptation. A ceremony of a new beginning is always at arms length, just not mine. Deformed by crippling fracture of the unknowing and unexplained, I print on the sheets of my journal. I’ll press the needle down and wait for the wind to change its direction to stand on the ledge once again.