When the Story Forgets Itself

I've been thinking lately that sometimes all I'm good for is bad metaphors and nonsensical whatever you want to call it. Some say art, some say a futile attempt to prove that I am anything more than whatever you want to call me. Working backwards or counting breaths I've been lost in circles of my own devising and wondering if there will ever be a light at the end of the long tunnel I find myself trouncing through… maybe there will just be more tunnel and less hope than I initially expected. I cannot claim to have sanctity of thought as I am working breaths and counting backwards Then I choose to avoid thinking of that and instead turn my thoughts to the gaping hole inside me. The hole where all of the emotional baggage is stored and I try my best to keep a padlocked key and deadbolt in place to stop even a little of the light escaping… Wrapped up in plastic, Wrought by guilt—shame Packaged up in woe Self preservation or self destruction. Working backwards counting breaths I've been thinking lately that sometimes all I'm good for is bad impulse control and unreliability. Some say a vain attempt to prove that I am not what you call me when tensions are high and sense is in short supply. Working breaths counting backwards But the story isn't about absolutes or easy fixes and tied up like a gift with a bow and a little card with a message of well wishing. Sometimes... I trail off and forget my train of thought or the point is that It only stops when you stop because you are the story. I am…