silken strands

incoherency

i hate this feeling. 

i feel so helpless, useless. 

i cant write, the words not forming properly, 

none of it sounding right on my ears nor from my tongue. 

i cant fathom the treacherous feelings of my own heart, for it drowns in this ocean of despair and pulls on the thin threads, sharpening the fibres with the fuel of my aching mind. 

i cant see; the moon sits high as i lay here, emerging my head through the passageways of comprehensive words. 

each letter is strikely displeasing and falls through the depths of my pupil, irises clicking like the tick of a clock. 

theres a thundering behind those eyes sending convulsions through every muscle and bone, and i lay here, the dull ache of my soul encapturing me  in the visions of the fantasies i read, before pushing my legs up and out again. 

my breath stops and i count to three, each number numb on the walls of my throat, before i start up again, like a wind up machine, the hatred for this life of mine building up mountains of capped bottles. 

incoherency cold,  incoherency damp