Scribbles of a Storm

Every step seems to go in the wrong direction,

to the wrong place,

to the wrong goal.

Every step seems to go backwards,

away from the good

and towards the bad.

My mind's a drawing of a five year old;

sometimes you can tell what parts are while others are scribbles,

lines with no ending that intertwine

over and over and over again,

the experiences I relive

over and over and over again.

Falling for those I can't have,

blaming myself,

hating myself,

pushing people away,

making them hate me,

just so there can be a tangible reason for this-this-this ache in my chest

that spreads through my veins,

a cancer that can't be beat,

a virus multiplying

and wiping out my defenses faster than I can create them

before falling back,

a fake sense of security before the storm starts again,

spreading and spreading and destroying everything in it's path,

a never ending cycle that may just be the thing to take me out.