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All bad poetry stems from genuine feeling,
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For your to far gone, for nothing can be undone...

Posted March 29th, 2011 at 06:54 PM by love is louder

A Lack of Armour - first draft, comments are welcome you know the drill.

It creeps over my brain consuming every thought and churning it into the want, the need to. I donít try and fight it. Itís no use it just hits harder later.
The emotions start flooding my head and my heart. Filling my eyes and making my nose tingle. I put it off. I go for a run and every time my foot hits the floor a voice in my head screams ďdo it, DO IT!Ē I watch telly I go to a friends. All the while subconsciously waiting to be alone. Just me and my little metal box. The only one that truly knows who I am. My only real friend. This is my secret and I feel empowered. I feel strength and truth and control. I can tear myself down and be rebuilt all in one same simple motion. The emotion gets too much to bare.
I get a knot in the pit of my stomach. I feel ill. My vision is blurred and my head is fuzzy. The harder it is the fainter I feel. Then comes a wave of euphoria engulfs every cell in my body, the release brings the emotion back as I push my head into the wall. The darkness passes through me and I feel alive I feel the atmosphere circle around me and I feel at piece with something, something big, just for a second. I feel connected to the earth and the people close to me. Like I belong. I feel almost... normal. Now I can smile. I am recharged I can go on pretending I'm like everyone else. I can imagine I feel how other people feel. And I can smile, a convincing toothy smile.
I feel stupid and ashamed. Disappointed in myself. Disgusted sometimes. This is the hardest thing to feel. Worse than pain. Worse than the embarrassment. I am confused. How can something so terrible make me feel so good. How can destroying my body help me cope. It is my crutch, I lean on it when I'm weak. Mentally and physically. It makes me so tired. An I know I will always be rejected. Cast aside by society, by people close to me that arenít even aware of it of how they make me feel. Now I redress, make sure I'm hidden, all of me is hidden. I wipe my eyes and slap that uncomfortable toothy grin on my face. And I head out into reality one again.
My body is like a journal. It is an expression. Every line, every indent tells a story. A story that is two hard to voice. A story to awful to share.
Its the real me.
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