Distortion.

I miss being able to write.

I miss the warmth that comes from

the creative juices

running through my body

as the keys click under my fingertips.

I force my mind to take a turn,

but the barricades send me on a detour

sending me on a ride full of reflection-

navigating a minefield

I've already been through.

Monochromatic and dusty;

I play in the silence

revel in the isolation

until I trip over a trigger

that brings on en emotional explosion.

THIS is why I stopped writing.

Opening a door to a funhouse

is how I enter a mindspace

of the cliched darkness and anger

I live my life trying to escape from.

viewing myself as a monster

a freak

unworthy

A warped image of me.

Fighting for self love

while trying to flee the images

too afraid to look at myself too closely.