Where are you
I keep asking over and over in my head
Why did you leave me
Is it something I said?
Why was I not good enough
Why couldn't you stay?
Where are you
It didn't have to be this way
Countless nights crying into my pillow
Wishing for you to say anything to me
I would have done anything for you
Oh why couldn't you see
You were the only person I want to love
No one can ever mean as much
Where are you
I miss your touch
I miss your good mornings
I even miss your lie
Saying you loved me
Then forever goodbye
About the Creator
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Where there's Art there's Heart
Here's a stupid thing: I adore art, but I start to panic whenever I step into a gallery. In the one place I should be at my contented best - surrounded by walls teeming with creative expression - I fall apart. What ought to be an enriching experience, tacitly designed to facilitate the exploration of human empathy and perspective, is for me an overwhelming purgatory of anxiety that compresses me to the point I cannot breathe. At the same time, I experience a sense of extraction, as though my head is being prized open to create a hole so big my sanity could evaporate. Somewhere between these two opposing forces of vice and vortex, I feel myself dissolving in a stream of panic that makes me want to cry; and I feel so daft feeling this way, that all I want to do is run for the hills.
By Caroline Jane4 days ago in Humans
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