Impressions mean nothing.
The tears that stream down my face are full of sparkling joy.
The reason that I haven't left are not my own.
The wants that I have,
The needs that I have,
Don't matter, they will be pushed aside for another.
Should I raise my fist, for another but not for my own.
Alone in a small corner.
These tears seek salvation at the bottom of my chin.
And the sorrow that rest within might consume my very actions.
I wish for a breath.
I wish for freedom.
To never be in the toxic, rural hands of this thing called .....
Depression.
It leaves impressions,
My heart lonely and afraid.
Pinning my hands behind my back.
Clipping my wings in steel.
Parching my forever taste for the blue abyss.
So my corner suits me now.
I wasn't fit to be loved anyhow.
To be bitten by the hand that once fed me.
To try to see it as I haven't seen.
Yet the impossibly hangs heavy on my mind.
The dream of my soaring high above clouds.
But it still remains,
and reminds me,
Of what I have truly lost,
And the chances I will never be given.
I don't know what I did to deserve this.
All I ever asked for is a paintbrush,
A new canvas.
A new color,
To paint over my mistakes.
and make new memories.
