Chasing after the sun.

Like the sun, you make my palms sweat and my heart palpate.
You brighten my life and leave my darkness shadowed behind me.
You surround me most of the day, warming me like a piece of clothing I wear, but disappear at night,
Then I find myself chasing after your existence, but end up writing words that don’t even rhyme

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Tearing apart..

I’m tearing apart. I can hear the sound of detachment, as my soul is breaking away. It aches. Severely painful. Excruciating and torturous. Tilting my head backwards, trying to ease the pain, clinging on to .. anything, clenching tightly, piercing my skin with my nails, bleeding – but I am not aware of it. I cannot let out a scream – I think I am already screaming, but I hear nothing, I can only hear the sound of something shredding, detaching, resisting.. though it feels it will give in. Give in to pain. Surrender hopelessly. Maybe then, pain will stop. Maybe it will show mercy. Maybe it will listen to my screaming – though I cannot hear it myself. I am out of breath. I was already out of breath, once that scream escaped. That shriek of terror. Of dismay…. Until darkness coats my eyes. Leaves no sense of consciousness. Then the cold hits my legs – and I wake up.

I wake up from my thoughts. My soul still bound to my body, I think. Or is this the dream? Where I find peace? – I do not know anymore.

Awake or Asleep..

I lay back, close my eyes, and float in the rhythm of my dreams..
And when once my dreams were an escape from reality..
Reality has come to haunt me to my bed,
As it has graved itself at the core of my subconscious.
Now I cannot tell between being awake or asleep..
The pain feels the same in both worlds..
The guilt tastes sour, choking me.
There is no relief, but heightened stress..
Drowning by my own misery, my own history.
Is there a writer out there..
Who could rewrite my yesterdays
And glamour them with sugar-coated lies?
Maybe I could be manipulated that all these dreams and reality
Are the stories of a character in a book..
A sad old dusty book.
That has nothing to do with me.
That I’m just a reader of my story.