Tormented Head

Oh for a numbness that would take away the world. It's as if I have no emotional skin to protect me. Everything that comes my way runs straight into raw flesh, open and bleeding and wounded. Where am I going, and why am I in this handbasket?

I want joy, but right now I find no pleasure in anything. I want to feel drawn to paint, or draw, or write, or play the piano, or anything. There is nothing I want to do.

I do not like being me. I do not like the minute by minute struggle of existance. I do not like the hours I spend locked in the prison of a tormented head. I want to run free, barefoot, over the sands of peace, but I am sinking in some kind of mud and I can't find a rope.

The hurt extinguishes me. For a fleeting moment I will feel young and pretty and desireable, but only for a moment. I stare and stare and there is nothing there, not a thing in front of my eyes.

I am alone. There is a moat about me. Who can cross? Existance is a wonderful yet equally terrible thing. I wish I could feel absolutely nothing all the time. Then it would be okay. I wish I could stop caring. I didn't used to care, and it was easier. Yet harder. It was hell, wasn't it?

I can feel the drugs inside my head churning. They change things slowly, but way too fast. One minute my ship is rocking, the next it is streaking forward, the next it is perfectly still and silent. And then it starts to move, but backwards. Everything flies by me in the wrong direction. I don't know what to do with this.