The Writer's Pocket

I'm in a lot of pain. Constantly. Every moment of the day,  there's this grip around my insides that refuses to relent. I can't sit still anymore. I find myself, for the first time in my life,  needing to do something,  anything, to distract from it. It used to be that I would rest in order to recover, but I feel like, if I rest, I'll lose what little control I have left. When I'm at work,  I sit and mindlessly repeat conversation after conversation for hours. That's fine, at first. I do some flashcards between calls, or perhaps workout a little. I'm busy, I'm fine. By the middle of my shifts, I feel myself slipping. Suddenly, I can't avoid the thoughts anymore. I think about him or the future... It's just a thought or two. But by the third quarter, a quiet panic starts. At the end of the day, it's all I can do just to get out of the building as fast as possible and rush home to cook and dance around the house and clean everything, until I...

How? I feel such conflict in heart, I think. Not unlike slicing open my thin skin, And being mesmerized by flow of ink, From the sacred place where it once had been. Then, realizing strength draining away, Feeling the great clunks of my heart trying, I attempt to sew myself whole and say, Next time, I mustn't let myself start bleeding. I sit and catch my breath, my eyes find you. A knife in hand, it drips with hot mixed blood Of desperate self-hate and unplanned jab through My heart, as is our seeming ritual flash flood.      Yet, sight of you washes 'way my fury.      I'd take any wound if 'twould end your mis'ry.

"See?" The young, lanky teen pointed out towards the open sea.   The other boy stared at the distant spot. He looked b ehind him . Then, b ack again , to the sea. "Literally, what?"   "Charlie. Look . Really fucking look!"   "There isn't--"   "It's right fucking there!" He gestured more violently at the point and his long hair whipped across his face.    Charlie grunted in exasperation. He stomped forward, shoved his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, and got as close to the edge as he could without pitching off the cliff into the waves below. He squinted and scanned the horizon, determined to find it. "I still don't see i — Ahhh!" He suddenly found himself falling towards the sea and then launching backwards towards land and his legs gave way from underneath him. He melted to the ground. His body shook and his breath came quickly.    Roger was laughing, b ent over, arms wrapped ...

A castle, tall and full of life. To guard, a few with hand on knife. But here he came, though they looked tough, That thief who stole the diamond rough. He swung 'cross moat, into a room. All were blind to impending doom. Down the stairs and hall, in a huff, That thief who stole the diamond rough. He headed towards the great moonstone. Lost, to nearby room he was drawn. He saw an odd stone in pile of stuff, That thief who stole the diamond rough. Carelessly, he shrugged and took it, Stuffed it in his jacket pocket. "This isn't that special," he did gruff, That thief who stole the diamond rough. Then the castle, full of sadness, Mourned the loss despite gem's drabness. He returned to moonstone search. Enough! That thief who stole the diamond rough. And so he left, two gems richer. Castle moved on, feeling poorer. Now there's more tough guards cause of That thief who stole the diamond rough.

These waves' sweet, rough love Pulling me deeper in dark. What distressing bliss.

The world is so dark. It would shine if but you loved. My heart waits for then.