Perfidious Invisibility

The hasty footprints do remain

of factitous renegades

to conceal a haggard self

as evanesced hope collects dust on a shelf

The algid winter flakes do flit

of heaven’s tears and pain’s sweet slits

to a sidewalk they will gather

as debauched remedies paint corpses’ matter

But still weeping willows’ roots will pull

into a maladroit hull

as burlesque lifestyles mirror the Lotus

a recreant traitor walks unnoticed.

-December 2011

The sense of relief concieved from my writings, such as this, used to be indescribable. It was my muse, my addiction, my way to cope with the person I had come to loath–myself. It surprises me, quite honestly, just how every ounce of pleasure in one’s life is sucked away by this illness. I no longer find pleasure in anything, much as I cannot find it within myself to pick up my pen and my leather-bond book and write my thoughts and feelings into syntactical harmony. Saddening, but true. My mother told me yesterday, like many times before, that “happiness is a choice.” I laugh with a dry sense of humor at the fact this I know this all too well. I know that I conciously decide whether or not I will eat. Whether or not I will cut. I decide it all. But in this present time, I am not in control of my actions, much less my thoughts. I numbly proceed through this life, wasting away one hour at a time, both mentally and physically. My 200 mg of Zoloft cannot even begin to touch what I can’t find the strength to battle.

~ by candyshele1204 on March 12, 2012.

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