oddity

And in the end, if I became a story, I hoped tragic people would read me and seek familiarity. My pieces must create a home for the lonely and make them lonelier. Inside this mind is a sea, with questions floating around far from the shore of certainty. Maybe I was born to word how you feel, and if dying a few times is a way to really live again, I'd be born a hundred hurtful times. There's this thing that sleeps in me, and I may have to search all the libraries, but no books would be enough to define it. This is the paradox of every corpse that lives inside you. This discomfort is an ample reason to be still and sway my worry of displeasing those who care. Writing burns a hole inside of me that convinces me that the world is on fire, yet this burning comforts me like a helpless child. Spare me a rest where time stops, and the universe will not betray what I desire. I swing back and forth like a rope hanging by the oak, between needing to be understood and hiding my misery.

There’s one thing that I am certain no one wants to hear; there's a void within that convinces me that no one can ever fill. God startles me; it's a mystery that a shattered mirror can still be of use as if it's my worn-out body. How could I forgive myself for all the questions I could not answer?