Pain Killers

I think I've got a writer's block. 

You know, the thing when you want to write your feelings but every time you start you hate it and you delete stuff and cross it out and start over. I keep crumpling up the papers in my head and throwing them away in the trash (also my head).

They say dumpster diving is for poor kids but I'd say it's reserved for the rich.

The late afternoon thoughts swarm around the air and I get sleepy or weepy and I can smell them too. Or maybe that's the food. Mom's making dinner.

I can only shut my door so many times before it starts to creak. The walls aren't thick enough to block out the sounds of the footsteps from upstairs or the basketball bouncing outside my window. My feet get too hot when I sleep with socks on. The sound of the fan puts me to sleep even when I forget to plug it in.

Sometimes I wonder what God thinks when I waste time.

I think I've got a feeling's block. 

You know, the thing when you realize any normal person would react but every time you get the chance you'd rather push away and bury it instead of facing it head on. I keep tearing down old walls and building up bigger ones in the same place (my head).

They tell you to listen to your heart but I'd say don't let it fool you.

The late night thoughts drift through the air and I'm wide awake and numb so I can't feel them either. Or maybe I can. Maybe that's what my heartbeat is.

I can only shut my eyes so many times before it loses it's purpose. My eyelids aren't thick enough to protect me from things I wish I didn't have to see or the things people tell me I should feel. My ears work but I'm not really listening. The empty promises and long texts seem to blur together even when I know it wouldn't matter anyway.

Sometimes I wonder if God ever feels alone.






-S.C.