Quicksand

and I can't move fast enough

Slowly, dragging my feet through

heavy thoughts and idle dreams

forget it

the trees above whisper

as they cackle with their shaking leaves

Sin

king

and the sand is filling my mouth

Let me speak but all I find is gritty

debris from my own head that

poured out when I screamed and

now I can't find the strength to

wade through

so all I can do

is

s

i

n

k

as I let the sand cover my eyes

surrounded by weathered desires

and denied ambitions

crushed and turned to this

dusty sand

that covers my head

and buries my bones

It pools at my ankles, enticing me to wade further. Have you ever dipped your toes into a warm bath—your legs suddenly feel heavy, and your body begs you to climb in? The aroma of bath salts and shampoo hangs heavy in the air. A bubble alights on your nose as you sink deeper, tilting your scalp against the rim of the tub, wondering whether you want to dip your whole head under. You can't remember the last time a bath felt this good.

Yet, even as your aching muscles relax, and your eyes drift shut, alarms sound in the back of your head. You're not sure you have the strength to climb out.

Sometimes I'm worse than Odysseus: I walk willingly into the siren's arms. Can you guess my vice?

A new house, all mine, symbolic of adulthood.

I get the keys, and learn how to it's done,

Though I mess up a bit, the house is all my own.

Sharp air, an earthy smell though slightly aromatic,

It learns all of my secrets early on, and I learn it

The creaks and cracks and crannies that I love

Though there are things I hate and hate to love.

I had parties early on, but everyone goes home

Except me, because I am home and I cannot go

Anywhere but these nooks and corners

When the nights get cold and my brain is swirling,

The ceiling is swirling and it's too big in here,

So big that I can't breathe, can't think alone.

I have to escape here somehow, but how

When it knows me so well, knows just what to say,

Just how to creak to make the nostalgia hit me

And make the tears fall onto the floor silently.

I used to be silent before this house but I echo now

Echoing in this vacuous house that I just can't fill

With people or things or memories or myself,

I hate myself now, and have ever since I moved in,

But I choose to torture myself instead of leaving

Because it's just easier to die alone in this space

Than try to explain why I'm not a homeowner anymore.

I used to hate being chained up.

I used to be free and alive. It wasn't a lie to me. Everything seemed real. But now I can't tell the difference between fiction and reality. I used to hate it. The chains that dragged me to the floor, refusing movement. They were heavy, reminding me of all the lies and insults I told myself.

And I would struggle. I'd fight and scream. Desperatly trying to claw my way back to those innocent days. The days of happy smiles and sunny days. Pigtails and lemonade spills. Those innocent days that defined me as a carefree girl.

I don't believe that anymore. I stopped fighting when the chains I hated so much turned into black thorns. Wide branches as thick as your arm, coiling around you and wrapping around your throat and eyes. They would draw blood, causing pain to me. It reminded me which realm was real.

The thorns prevented me from moving without pain. I hated this, too. I hated it all. Then something broke inside my head. I used to think that a broken item couldn't be broken any more than it already was. But I was wrong to an extent. It can't be broken more...

But it also cannot be fixed. No matter what.

So what did I do after realizing this? Nothing. I embraced my thorns and my chians. I loved them. Chains kept me pinned in the real world, the world that I can breathe and live in. That is why I love my chains. But my thorns? I love them too. They keep everyone out. They keep all my thoughts and emotions locked up inside, refusing to allow them to leave and make themselves known.

My thorns keep others away. They don't apporch a bush that can hurt them. So I stay alone and silent. I can't speak or even breathe sometimes. But it feels safer like this than without them. What I used to hate and fight against, I now depend on so much that without my thorns and chains I can't function. I'm so open and revealing without them that I break down. I claw them back to me when they attemp to leave me.

You can't break something that's already broken. But you cannot fix it either.

my fears are chains keeping me

from being me.

your words are pulling the chains

making them tighter and tighter

around my neck

you pull the chains

until im no longer me

and i can't breathe

so i give in but you dont let go

and even when you do

i still cant breathe

because im no longer me

Vices like a vise

stuck pinned in place, an insect under a tack

suffocating in dingy-dirty weakness

Nothing redeeming left

nothing left

to

redeem

***** I have a bad side*****

****I'm envy man****

***I envy good people because I can't do good***

*THE END*

It's like a tangled ball of string

Knotted in as many different ways

Square knot , Reef knot , Half Hitch

An intwinde mess indeed

Think of every time someone says a comment

The knots are pulled ten times tighter

Their fibers now meshed together making it nearly impossible to pick apart

The cycle then repeats itself until it slowly consumes you

You limbs tied in string restaining your movements

Leaving you no control , helplessly struggling on the floor

Some say use the old fashion way to dismantle this distar by methodically working at the knots with your fingers

Carefully and patiently tugging at the string

But wouldn't it just be so much easier with scissors ?