Focusing

Who wants to look at themselves for very long? We begin to see the dust we've allowed to build up, and cake over...the fissures needling through our foundation...how flawed we are...part of us desires to quite, but another part...wants to fight back.

Please don't make me focus on the dust inside...
no sweeping away the dirt and grime that I hide.
The furniture of my mind is encrusted with filth.
It's destroying my mental, emotional, and physical health.

 

I do not sleep, or rest...my psyche creates nightmares;
images crouching inside my slumber, scare me away from there.
I cannot eat, or food ingest...my stomach has a hole
where hunger creeps out, and sickness won't let go.

 

I am tired...weary, falling, wallowing in self-pity.
I'd wipe the decay from these clouded eyes to see,
but I might see blame pointing its finger at me...
then...then that picture seared in my memory would be.

 

Frostbitten, numb, buried beneath a mountain of snow...
why my emotions still burn, I will never know.
Who am I, that I lie comatose - blood pooled and stilled;
yet life...through these veins boils and thrills.

 

Focusing...please don't focus on the Me inside -
don't gaze past the surface, piercing my lies.
This porcelain stone - fragile, yet hard; resilient, yet not -
my presence wilts cold, but my soul...my soul grows hot.