Shitty poetry

I
am
losing
it
I am unaware of what I feel and I forget what I say. The disturbance causes me too much pain, it stings stings stings me and I feel the rush of something like electricity which hammers inside me and I don’t know what to do as if this body isn’t part of my property anymore. My mind is a polluted organism locked up precariously in an uncertain universe. There’s a war inside my mind and it kills me slowly, poisoning every inch of my soul until I become ashes and get carried away by the wind. He stole my heart and he’s the one to blame.
I have a battle with my thoughts.
They’re blurry, stationed with lightning in a massive row of problems hidden in the empty jars of my innocuous mind. I can see everything but him. That’s my problem. My opinions about him are merely sentenced enthrallment, but I don’t really know him. I need to I want to I should
I can’t
because he won’t let me.
He has a lot of things to worry about but he still knows what to do unlike me, who’s suffocating because of the waves of my troubled ideas, standing still and unconvinced that I have the free will to do what’s necessary because I want to be free from this catastrophe and I cannot loop myself away in which I know I may have if I tried. He doesn’t give me a chance to speak- or even look at him. His brown eyes turn away every time we meet our gaze. He resists me. He knows who I am; my errors and my art combined, and I just get to know that he’s a man made of riddles. He’s an enchanted forest, full of secrets. He holds the power to control me to bewilder me to stupefy me and all he requires to do is watch him and nothing passes after that.
I hate him
I hate him
I hate him but at the same time I wish he notices me once in a while. I am misguided by his gentle ferocity. One look and I’m shattering to p i e c e s. In this asylum full of people hiding thoughts inside their pockets and mysteries in their eyes, it’s hard to tell if I could trust someone or not, and that includes him. I look at him the way I look at my books, thinking, that this one has a different story and I shouldn’t judge or seek for answers or be curious at first because secrets have specific revealing points that must not be disobeyed: I’m completely aware who will.
I have hundred things to
say
and a thousand things to
ask
I feel that we have a gap and he’s not letting me take my leap of faith although I know where we’ll end up and he knows that too but he doesn’t want to say it out loud. I am captivated and distracted by all of him and I think I was stunned; I have a lot of mistakes and accomplishments and he’s in between. He has perfected being him and although I’m proud, I’m still against it because he makes me feel like a disentangled thought in a clamor with nothing to say.

m.m.

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