Venting is good through this, I've grown accustomed to the silent judgment of the internet.
I'm weird, writing is the best way and one of the only ways i can express how i feel, its a slow release.
Even if i'm not good at it
my chalice sits upon a pedestal,
Tilted; the chalice slides ever so slowly,
The holy cup,
Although aged and beautiful is plain,
Skeletal and dark.
In the bottom lies a trickle of blue liquid;
Sadness turned liquid that seeps from its sides,
The stains of blue are vibrant towards the top and fade slowly towards the bottom.
Amiss the marble you can see traces of repair,
Someone has tried to cover the stains,
Obviously maintaining the structure is hard.
The breakdown:
My mind is fucked, i'm slipping, they are coming back.
I not empty anymore and i hate it
ALL I FEEL IS SORROW; AND ITS SPREADING
i don't eat, i don't sleep and its getting noticeable.
If i cant deal with it i cover with stupid actions incomprehensible, its not even subtle anymore
My charisma is vanishing and i'm being replaced by this sheltered new "Ego"
Help.
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