There is no explanation

Inspiration….why do I not ever heed its call? I have poetry, expressive, articulate, melancholic poetry in my soul and whenever the mood to write strikes me….I put it off. Why must I always do this? Am I afraid of what will come out? Am I afraid of the pain?

I block out the sound of their voices,
I block out the memories of the past.
I block out the life I have left behind.
I block out the negative experiences that somehow overshadow and taint the good ones.
I do this because its easier to forget all that lies behind rather than face it.

I am not exactly looking forward to tomorrow either. I suppose its more like existing in the right now. Tomorrow itself is frightening because who knows what tomorrow will bring? Who knows what heartache, disaster, and disappointment are in store? I am living in an alternate reality than the one I am used to. It’s a facade, a smoke screen; none of this is real. I am not really sure what is real anymore. All that is real is the anger and all of the other feelings I have chosen to ignore. But the anger is a cloak, something to cling to….something to focus on so that I can pretend to forget.


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