MadnessHamster

Usually when I have a problem or any other issue playing on my mind I turn straight to Microsoft word, or other forms of note making. It's worked for everything. Crushes that will only ever be crushes, fears that will fade away as I grow older and decisions that upset, frustrate and scare me half to death. But this little bothersome thought I have right now has been developing for a long....long time. And I cry as I write because this thought not only scares me to my core but it also makes me feel ever so slightly sick. The heavy weight pulling down in my stomach the retched dry lump that tries to tug its way up my throat and somehow it only

Inspiration didn't used to come easily to me.  I spent the majority of my life in routine. This used to drive me crazy, and sometimes I'd feel my brain begin to numb, as if slowly but surely every inch of conscience and desire and dream was dripping away. I didn't ever get excited by anything; I never felt I was truly happy, not one bit of enthusiasm showed because those feelings had dripped away with everything else. I began wondering if there was something wrong with me. I wished so hard for myself to just feel that tiny bit happy, to smile naturally, to fall on the floor laughing. I'd even give anything, absolutely anything just to cry wit

My vocal chords strum no sound. My heart strings are old and tangled. The butterfly's in my stomach turn to demons with sharp wings that scrape and claw. They draw blood, They draw blood full of dirt. Do the mirrors of my mind reflect too little, am I just a spectre floating by unseen? Left to mend myself alone? Could you help me? I'm sure by now you know me well enough to understand that I'm not very good at mending broken things. And though you're good at mending things, you're a lot better at breaking them.

The dance floor remains a bare canvas yet it has been painted over many times before with different colours of toe taps and pirouettes. With different shades of twirls and leaps, and different strokes of glides and plies'. The tone of a chosen melody helps her paint and soon becomes a significant fragment of the art. The colours blend and the shades become more defined. Parts are erased and new shades are quickly mixed. New scenes are drawn, bigger and better stretching from every corner of the canvas. It's re-painted over and over until she finds it perfected. When time is ready she will paint her work once more on a canvas viewed by many.

With the brush of his shoe's he will paint the earth, with the colours of his freedom. His dance is his blue tinted spectre, living on forever, in perfect rhythm with the travelling breeze. I wish I could keep in time with the dramatic quickstep of the hurricanes, to move so smoothly to the wispy winds that glide between forest trees. To sway perfectly alongside him and his travelling dance partner. But stuck in shady black and bleak proves itself unworthy to my wondering mind. The mind that grows forever sick of following straight lined footprints of another, the mind that can't stop pulling me towards reality's sick game against freedom. Th