thingy wingy (AKA dug up drafts from my dusty notes) (sleep deprived at time of completion)
The loose thread to my protective layer has got caught on jutting corners recently, stepping over that oh-so-dangerous line, blowing powerful gusts of wind in the direction of my inquisitive allyway, leaving me undecided on whether my recent explosion in creativity is forceful or the small push I yearn for. The scales that lean against the walls of my skull have exhausted my mental state, one side holding the weight of sensibility and the other reckless. I am tired of the devil on my shoulder bickering with my level-headed consciousness, I am tired of pushing my hopeful tendencies so far that they burn, leaving me with nothing but a glowing pile of expectancies. Yet I still cling on to the optimistic characteristics that my personality has so patiently clung on to, much like clinging onto a piece of driftwood in a heap of rotting timber. This fast-pace, motion picture-esque blur of moods has left me defeated, desperate, yet not so desperate as to lower my guard, the victorious pile of ash still lingers. Every inch of my aching, thought-absorbing body pleads for mercy, this recurring cycle of self hatred has re-opened scars I so stubbornly sealed shut.