A Rambling of Sorts:
Is my anger destitute?
Is my rage fueled with my own withering self-esteem?
Does my sadness find a better home on canvas than my violence ever will?
If I bottled up all my emotions that made me feel like an eighth of a person, would my misery only be half-baked?
I choke on differing opinions, knowing they feed my ego more than a conversation.
A defiance I keep in secret would be wasted on the deaf ears of my surroundings.
Fortunately, my heart and mind have been more of a home than anywhere, anything, anyone else.
I rest in solitude and crave intimacy, but I lack courage.
A lion’s mane is coarser than you’d imagine.
I know I hide behind cold walls and rebuttals, but a heart spray-painted can only cough up fumes.
An excellence, I strive for, but my roads always lead to dead ends.
Better to get out of the car, and start walking into the woods.
I don’t need to be in the woods to be raised by wolves, but I howl at the moon knowing it’s a better calling than what I could have found.
Death.