A heavy pocket on a weighed down heart.

My gut is hurting. Like, really hurting. I channel all my stress to my stomach, and it kills. Everything is a possibility. Temptation is a possibility. You give in, and your faced with the consequences. You don’t give in, your still thinking about the consequences. The what ifs. Its a cycle of tangents. But they all lead back to the same thing. Right now I want to dissolve. I want to escape this current train of thought. This pattern in my life. This void in my life. But its not a void. Its not empty. Its a collage of broken sanity. Its a mud map to everywhere. Connections, how much can I get, memoirs, rushes, colours, encounters, dreams, hallucinations, tastes, cravings within cravings. That feeling of whatever being in your pocket. You check every 30 seconds just to see if its still there. That it hasn’t fallen out. You clasp its greatness. Its the holy grail, and your walking like some guilty hero. A heavy pocket on a weighed down heart, with a head as high as a broken kite is all your worth. Why am I even saying “your”, when this is me. I think I’m just holding on to some hope that this is me talking, and not my cravings. But this only proves my insanity.