existence.

"Sad stuff makes beautiful poetry, but it's not so pretty to live with." [-Merecat]
*For the Dear Diary Competition*
(I recommend anything beyond 'Tumbling Ash' for the rest is a mess of nonsense words that hold no character, no story and absently fill the page)

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103. Orange Trees

 

My morning trail through the park left me with pictures on my phone of the

trees dyed salmon and rose,

the sun bursting in tangerine fits through the curled branches.

I forget about the beauty of the morning despite its cold air that snaps my cheeks

red and I wish I could

find as much beauty within myself as I do the sky and the colours it bathes the world in.

 

Part of me felt more in touch with my group but the broken words of

old friends left empty by regretted relationships

still held the rope that strangles me with undying wishes I want to let go of but my

hands insist on holding on even though I scream

with a throat cut raw

to simply unfurl my fingers and watch them fly away into the cold clouds of the day.

 

I seem stuck in dread of lessons to come and wish my school

understood the way pain felt,

the way pain feels,

and how the crippling anxiety that drains my guts with shaking fists leaves me

wishing for the breeze of time to whisk away the words and sights and

empty me of my paranoia.

 

I wish too much because I am especially one to know that wishes

are wasted wants and

wasted wants and nothing more than peculiar thoughts left to bubble in a darkening mind

but I can't help but to constantly wish.

That seems to be all I do nowadays,

wish and want,

such selfish ideas that consume my mind and lead me away from all things nice into

the blackened world of depression.

 

-25th January 2016

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