I define myself by the different elements of this daily drain I call the "usual".

A place I cherish, a place where I have grown too grotesque for my own skin.

It kidnaps my breath, offering a ransom to possibly let me experience it; what an utter tease.

What an awkward position to me at this very moment.  Offering this warmth to keep me at ease.

I look at it.  This can't possibly be mine- what a strange thing to speak.

I just saw it and described it; this pattern I own.

So smooth as it glides from end to end, and on.

I want everything to be like this.  It holds and contains me while all along I just want it to be done.

From the heart;  love is presumed to be spoken from, sadly a lost location.

What a sin to be placed upon a person's hidden soul of trust.

She dreams in black, a tinted vision of one's morbid definition of existing.

She tries to swallow the dryness that has consumed the inside of her tired eyes, keeping her awake.

Wanting to breath as they slowly shut, this being the only motion that portrays no harm.

All she wants is to drive a stake deep through the thickness of these dreary sensations.

To sweep them away, until another day. 

Pots and Pans

I sit in the middle of this floor- a place I've never embraced before.

Years of disappointment from every person, the feeling of solitude surrounds me.

Quite not sure if I'm okay, who can tell anyway.

Force me up, by the collar if you will, even if I don't have a choice.

I want to run and scream insanity, until my throat burns something fierce.

Quite not sure what stops me, wishing that someone was there. 

A person there to stare.