The frustration of having tightly squeezed fists and not being able to punch anyone.
They clam up and sweat from the frustration because they can’t have a special contact with someone’s face.
The frustration of not being able to open up to my loved ones and friends.
To have it all bottled up.
To scream with no one hearing.
The frustration to keep me sane in the insanity.
To keep my body and mind from scarring.
To keep me alive.
The frustration to fight for happiness.
I shake from the inevitable sadness I feel.
I feel myself slip into a nostalgic coma of hysteria to live.
To fake a smile is easier than one thinks.
The frustration of seeing the sun shine its oh so lovely rays on to others.
To never be able to feel the warmth and love from them.
To write is all these feelings all bundled up into one.
To be expressed in a forever loving way to harm no one… or myself.