The Random Proses stored away.

Scribbles

I walk and walk, talk and talk, as I try to comply with those cacophonies of noises spewing from your delicate lips that once comforted me.

I'll never change, I'll never be redeemed not as much as you want me to. I've realized my mistakes, I've seen my mistakes, and I've cried about my mistakes. Yet, here I am again with my drowning impulsiveness. It was a joy to be a child, it was a joy to be everything you didn't want me to be- it completed something inside... And you rip it away again, yet I'll piece it back together with hope for decadence.

My passions are both and unwanted and unneeded, aren't they? My joyous splendor as I create more colors from the bottom of my heart- the rhythmic feeling I get as I try different things with pencils and paper.

I'd always find everything I sketched dearly in the trash bin as I try find my pride and only work.

My responsibilities are both weighing, but real. I don't like it- but, It's there and true. It's ready to take me once it sees fit, and become something tied to work for the sake of helping others.

The more I drew, the more I made- the more you pushed and ripped it all apart with a righteous hand of reason. But I still stand with my own conflict of a maniac obsessed with the only thing sticking it to its humanity and happiness. But you can't blame me about it... a person I am, a person you are. We're no different, we had useless passions as well.

But I'm not willing to give it up because even if we're still tied back together by traits I never wanted, I still have a heart wanting to go on an adventure and swim with the dreams I hoped for.

Is this why I've grown so distant? Everything I cherish and hold close; I don't dare to share it with you anymore. Knowing you'll take it away, replace it with something worth your time.

Is it really a passion, if I'm not enjoying it? If it's just you who likes it?

I want to be the undecodable, I want to do the undoable. And it'd be all possible if you weren't holding me down. But if you weren't either, I'd probably end up somewhere worse. And I find it hard to accept that... no matter how true it could be.

I need you; you need me.

I'm doing and I'm working, holding up a pen not meant to draw makes the hand and mind feel weak- a cocoon of dreams filtered into mechanical dread as I listen on and jot down the corrects and wrongs. Feeling the futility as everything I want is listed down in a place I can never reach. While every already existing weight is set down to continue.

It's unfair- but, it's right.

And it's so tiring.

So many people to take care of, so many people to grow up for- and so many people to work for. This work is pure passion, they say. You'll enjoy it the more you sink deeper, they say. I don't believe it- and I never want to believe in so.

I'm halfway through the depths, nothing's changed and only a hopeless body can rest uneasily now. This passion was for me? No, this dream of wealth was yours. And you knew I was the only one who could bore it into action.

I lost everything, I lost the wish to spread colors and draw truth. It's at the back of my heart where not even I'm allowed to look and reach into anymore just so I can't spoil their ambitions.

Closed off heart, containing dreams I want but not allowed to touch. It seems hopeless, maybe. But I was made and molded to accept this at some living point.

I get so much money, so much praise. I've taken pieces of myself to turn into tools- I've become the epitome of a worker. And don't I deserve joy? Isn't this a moment of happiness? Just a little, then we're back to sorting and obeying to things.