12 hour work shift, and my feet feel as thin as fragile glass. The ache and pain is keeping me up at night, I lay here more sunken into the depression I keep to myself. He sleeps when I don’t, and I sleep when he can’t…
I’m too tired to cry, in too much pain to allow a head ache.
I’m too tired to feel.. He may never understand this side of me.
The Ink of a pen is the end of a finalized word, an emotion. Every scrape across each line defined, which allowed the ink to soak and mold every letter on the back of the paper.. It wasn’t until I felt strain in my carpals, I was able to see myself In a cautioned state of mind. ..thinking to myself, “I always come back here, and I leave it emptier than times before.” My internal suicidal desire, she lures me onto this infinite hole. Where all my ‘extremes linger’ Yet, I always come back for more.