Sometimes I sit there and worry about not feeling. And at others this appears as high comedy. Because really that isn't my problem at all. That has never been my problem. The trouble is I feel too much. My cross is that I wound too easily. Who knew words can be as acid on the flesh?
Sometimes I think I have no instinct of self-preservation. I remember a long time ago, watching in silence and some contempt, moths that couldn't seem to resist the flames. Now I understand better the fascination they can hold. Who knew something so pretty can be so deadly?
Sometime I lie at night listening to the sounds of distant laughter, to the faint strains of music carried on the wind, gay chatter muffled by walls that seperate. And the loneliness is a tangible lump inside me that restricts my breathing. Who knew pain has a taste like metal?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment