Times when the accumulation of heartache
Breeds a new heartache
All of its own
A lostness, felt only by those with the keenest sensitivities
Lost both to themselves & to love
There is a joy in that
Annihilation
The rhythmic ebb of an incessant avoidance of maturity
The flow of wisdom, unknown
Quiet growth, silent
Progress
No words to vindicate this foul and irksome suffering
Only my viscera can expel
The bad objects
You create
To say one chooses one's reaction is like granting the mind
Sovereignty over matters of the heart:
How absurd that sounds
To a poet.
My body speaks louder than my mind, when it shakes a trembles
As the disappointment or rage
Seeps through
My sinews
Perhaps the connection in my brain make me cry and convulse
But they are not the cause
The stimuli are too many
To count
Yet they always involve something primitive and unspoken
Unspeakable even, for when
Words will not do
The body speaks
I found a language for my body to discharge the pain
I discovered a new freedom
In needing myself
Once again
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