There are times when i wanna grab the boldest and loudest markers and scrawl all over my bedroom walls. Graffitti, poems, all that i think.
But all that goes on im my head doesnt fit into my world.
I wanna write a poem but i dont have an axis, i wanna scrawl the walls but they are all painted green, i feel like going up to the roof and singing, but theres a mellowness in my heart that i cant explain
each thought is distinct, yet too scattered to be linked, like shards of broken mirror...an individuality in its ownself yet disconnected from its purpose.
Its rather strange...not being able to do what you want to, when you want to. And later looking back to the rose tinted past and wondering if i had, but theres no denying the hollow feeling.
writing was my source of happiness, my raging expressions behind the composed facade of my being...but i cant seem to write what i feel anymore. Suffocation!! :(