Disconnect.

I wonder why I can talk so easily about the things that play tug of war with my sanity.

The masses say that sharing should be hard.

I uncover and explain with surprising ease but along with the barrage or words my voice grows monotone and a sickening feeling festers in the pit of my stomach.

I have been disconnected from the wires in my scull.

Please excuse me, My wifi’s down.

The numbing agent finds my nerves and

my tears do not meet my waterline.

I am confused.

And I am lost when I feel most exposed.

How did a wave of heart wrenching emotion come to find a place where if fears the light.

I don’t fear the light, but something inside me does. Holding the expression captive.

I can’t pinpoint the problem.

I told myself I was vulnerable.

That is not false by definition, but it is not laden with pure truth.

My inner conversations are defined by a key inside a lock. Not turned.

My words are like a book. Read but not comprehended. Lost meaning.

My thoughts are like a tree strong rooted, but does not bare leaves.

I am a wick with no flame.

I am missing part of my explanation.

When in solitude, I gush the truth in my hand writing.

I notice the inevitable and I sit in wasteland.

I feel the depths of my soul toss and turn like a toddler restless in the night.

I am a ball of what you could define as crazy

and my heart skips like a rock on the lines of the water only to crash into the shore on the other side.

I let go of all sanity and let myself succumb to dissonance when no one is watching.

When no one is listening.

Why does my heart loose feeling when I am met with a place of safety?

This place of safety questions my process and authenticity.

I am covered with a blanket of soft questions with good intentions.

In a room that feels like home

Surrounded by people who are willingly standing in my shoes and bandaging my wounds

Yet I speak as if I have everything under control.

I speak with authority as if the things that I share are as light as a feather.

I speak with a face so flush that it shows no depth.

I fear that the things that dig so deep seem shallow to my audience

I fear that the things that I share are being shoved the backs of people’s minds to sit in the junk draw just take up space.

I fear that my feelings are not counted as valid because I have dry eyes

And a tone of voice that stays consistent without hesitation without shaking.

I fear that I have to prove my pain.

I can’t pin-point the problem.

I don’t understand why.

I have no idea if the silver lining is around the next bend,

But I can tell you, I am missing part of my explanation.