bleeding

I am not standing still. I am not sitting in silence.
My thoughts are sent, scattered upon the wind, only to return as a tornado of torment.
Is it that shadows are frequenting my every step, or have I become my own silhouette?

It is when I am at my most damaged that I sit here and bleed out in ink.

There are often clouds swirling within my mind on even the most clear and bright of days, yet somehow I go on. I am drawn to exist despite all that tries to keep me from existing. I have come to think of breathing as an act of suicide.

I do not find myself lamenting the lost days of my youth, for they were too few and my youth was far more grown than my years alluded to at the time.

My one regret is simply that upon a world so vast, I have yet to find a place that makes me feel like I belong.