Every waking hour
is either work or feeling.
The feelings are jagged.
is either work or feeling.
The feelings are jagged.
All I want is to have them processed
but when I pay attention
they feel like shrapnel.
but when I pay attention
they feel like shrapnel.
Hence
I just hide away
behind the curtain of work and toil—
the sterile glow of a monitor,
the ceaseless ticking of a clock.
I just hide away
behind the curtain of work and toil—
the sterile glow of a monitor,
the ceaseless ticking of a clock.
And when
the mind has its freedom
to drift,
the thoughts meander into the shadow
of sorrow.
the mind has its freedom
to drift,
the thoughts meander into the shadow
of sorrow.
And I feel that
with all my body and soul,
and it settles, a leaden ache.
with all my body and soul,
and it settles, a leaden ache.
Can I just stop?
For a second.
For a second.
Will my skin grow thick?
Will it keep the feeling
from piercing?
Will it keep the feeling
from piercing?
I'll walk, and work, and be there.
Just there. Not anywhere.
It is just those feelings—
they are piercingly vivid.
Just there. Not anywhere.
It is just those feelings—
they are piercingly vivid.
keep returning