i make a home between the warning signs

the apple tree leaves sway in the breeze. and i want to cry, because it’s been a week since i’ve actually fucking let myself sleep. because i forgot what happy people are supposed to do.

so yeah. maybe i let them get under my skin. let them grovel, and pray. let them barter, and pursue. maybe i did it for the money, but… wouldn’t you?

maybe i let them pull the wool over my eyes; turned over a thousand leaves in my mind. wondering why none of them felt new.

maybe i find myself between the lines. chart it all out in rhythm, and rhyme. i make a home between the warning signs. because… i have to.

close my eyes, and crash into the hillside; a mess of battle wounds. and i beg the sun, in all its might, to make me anew.


I’m sure this poem could be better, but this is all the editing I have time for right now. It’s been a long day–it’s been a long month, honestly. With work, and school, and writing, and basic hygiene/cooking/cleaning, and maintaining a very minimalist social life, there just isn’t much time left over. Some days, I like that–because I thrive off of work. Without something to focus on, my mind just kind of short-circuits.

But at the same time, I get tired, after a while.

And at first, that’s all it is. Tired. It’s lethargy; lying around in bed for half an hour longer than I needed to. It’s sleeping through twelve alarms. It’s crying when I burn onions, or lose the keys or what have you. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, that mild state of depression is all it is ever amounts to. But more often than not, I find myself just feeling… empty. And hopeless. I cry when I read the news, and I think about death all the time. I try to keep up, with the neverending list of things to do, but I just can’t. And without something to focus on, I spiral further and further, until at some point, I panic; because I’ve just spent the past seven hours watching TV, Youtube, or generally frittering my time away, it’s 9pm, and I have a whole day’s worth of work to get through. Which undoubtedly leads into the frenetic typing, the constant working from the moment I wake up to the moment I go to bed; always biting off more than I can chew, and freaking out every time something goes the slightest bit wrong. In this state, I constantly feel guilty; take responsibility for things I didn’t even do. And eventually, I burn out; repeating the cycle all over again.

Every two days, to two weeks, I get maybe at least an hour an at most a day of buffer time. Time, when I’m just okay; when the chemicals in my brain aren’t making everything a struggle. And it’s nice. But it’s not enough.

Sometimes, I see what other people are up to. And, not gonna lie, I get jealous. Because how is it fair, that they can just do these amazing things, that I want so desperately, without this level of fallout as a result? If I didn’t have to spend so much of my life panicking because of a slightly awkward conversation, or crying because it feels like my life is hopeless, what would I be doing right now?

But it’s just hypothetical. Just a fantasy in my head. The reality is–at least for now–this is my life.

I have made a home between the warning signs. Not because I want to–but because right now, I don’t have any other options.

Lots of love,

dragonwritesthings

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