Silly tears

I hate feeling sad about things I can’t change. It seems a waste of pain to spend it wondering on what could have been. To spend precious time wallowing and crying. Yet, some nights my mind wanders to those who were but never was. Who said yes, but never touched. It’s impossible to know what could have been and yet my heart dwells on what was in the futile hope of discerning meaning. And in discerning meaning perhaps find a way back there. It’s a foolish heart I have. To hold onto love after the storm of it is past. But perhaps being this foolish person is just who I am. Perhaps, I have never learned to go lightly, and perhaps that’s ok. But it still hurts. I remember them. I remember what I felt. And what I still feel. Me and my foolish heart.

A dream that lives the man

I want to fill my head with noise
Just a cacophony of sound so I don’t have to think
Just a minute to stop
Not know
Not be
Just static
A mask for pain
Something to keep my eyes clear
No blurry vision
No cloudy pictures
Feeling alone feels like giving up

Get to know your own company they say
But you can’t turn and share a book with yourself
Can’t listen to a particular piece of music
Can’t sing a silly song you made up on the spot
Just because

Maybe I’ll be good at this on some future tomorrow
But I doubt it
I want too much
I want all
I’ve been the possible
I’ve seen the chances
How can I go back to the alone?
I’ve come too far to accept that

Lost in the quiet morning

In my youth
I thought to remake the world or burn it
to break it and rebuild
but somehow those dreams slipped away
replaced by just trying to be content
to find a way clear of sadness

looking for and finding
failing and loss
breaking and broken
it was I that was lost.

And somehow I woke
but always craving the dream
a world where you loved me

The things I miss

Your voice, whispering softly in my ear.
Your smile, like the sun coming out.
Your eyes flashing grey in sudden anger
The look in your eyes, saying Sir
Dressed to the nines dancing with abandon
Holding you after you spoke with family
Public displays of affection and your blush.

These 7 words for seven things that I miss.
11 years, 4 months, 11 days.

But there are those who are here that I love. But I’ll never be over her. I hope that’s OK.

My version of a panic attack

My heart beats faster and the pain comes pouring out. The desire to end and the frantic need to be held and loved and told it will be all right. It’s my version of the more traditional panic attack. This shift to sudden sadness. And I need to isolate myself because I can feel the tears, the sobs coming and I can’t explain it without explaining everything I shouldn’t. All the secrets, all the truths that wait in the darkness, waiting to grab hold and twist their way out of me. That’s what it feels like. And I know that voice lies but it feels like truth. I feel so alone as my heart slams and the blood pulses. Just a touch from my love and it’ll quiet, but there’s been no one to do that in years. I’m just a broken doll. Discarded, discovered, then cast aside again for something better. There’s just this stretching of days and this nothing, this nothing, this nothing. Not enough to be loved, not enough for anyone. All chances fled. All hope denied. Not even sleep is a refuge when you remember your dreams.

Thoughts that spill tears

I haven’t been to sleep in 24 hours
And I can feel the sluggish nature of my thoughts, but I think I’d be OK if I never slept again. Because when I sleep I dream and I remember my dreams. I’m aware in them. And often I’m with someone who loves me. It’s not Morgan anymore. I don’t know who they are. I just know that they wait for me beyond the veil of sleep. They accept and love me for all of me, my flaws, everything that I am. And that’s great but I leave them. I wake and I’m torn away from them over and over. I don’t know how long I can endure that. So not sleeping seems the better course, but I feel like I could be betraying them by staying away. What if they are as real as I am and they wait for me? What if we’re both just searching and this is what we’ve found. It’s both insane and sad when I write it out, but that’s who I am right now. A sad, lonely writer, dreaming of something he had, that it seems he’ll never have again. Madness seams a refuge in that case.