Bitterness, the part of me the escapes the most. A code, a marker left behind by my forefathers. A part of myself that plants the weeds I wish I could pull up. But my tears are all but dry. For the stoic I had become to survive made damn so of that. Yet I scribble down words, I often wonder if I really mean. For the joy of what was once life, is now all out of my grasp.
Apprehension keeps everything out of reach. It paralyzes the words that should have been said. Freezes the moments I should have taken. Turning everything to servitude in an attempt to be worthy. Only to disappoint time and again the god I serve, acceptance and worthiness. Still that word, that word selfish; I dream but know I’ll never see. Draws nothing but poison from my veins.