Sense

Who knew repeatedly kicking someone

further into the ground could be such a fickle process.

It's almost as though the goal is to make someone kick their own selves.

I wonder how much rage life has to use so many people as its punching bag. 

I am so ill with regretting the belief that I had the ability to stop any of it.

I dread the feeling of helplessness. 

They say that I'm handling all of this so well,

though I'm not so sure that I would call what I've been doing, 

"Handling". 

Perhaps I "handle" it as if I had a graceful glass vase.

Walking as though there were eggshells beneath my feet,

though I knew that I was breaking all of them. 

In that graceful vase,

I placed all of the pain that I don't know how to manage.

All of the angst, anger, and sadness that I couldn't be rid of by myself.

I'm meant to feel all of these things and let them go,

but the fear that I simply can't has shaken me to my core and incited a panic.

I've denied myself the ability to make mistakes, 

feel things that one wouldn't mention in a casual conversation.

As I attempt to revert back to what allowing them in,

if I ever had before, 

I realize that I have no clue where to start. 

I keep telling myself that it's all okay, and that all I'm feeling is normal.

But I'm nowhere near normal,

so why am I trying to normalize myself like this?

It's almost a degrading habit to myself.

I would always repress the parts of myself that I didn't like,

the feelings that seemed too raw.

I permitted them to plague my gray matter

to the point that I wished away my mind and all of the thoughts that came with it. 

I deemed my sadness unnecessary and weak, which it is,

but this is apparently how I should deal with it.

I cannot ask who people are to give me

my coping mechanisms when they can barely function themselves,

because I have no other methods in my arsenal.

I also have no clue where all of the pain is coming from in the first place.

I know that not everyone is meant to understand what I'm feeling,

but I don't have the slightest inkiling as to what I'm feeling either.

If I were to guess,

I'd bet money on heaps of pain slowly piling up

like ice cream in a cone that doesn't solve the problem of overheating. 

I don't particularly care is the rest of me makes sense, 

but I would just like my mind to make sense.

It'd be great if all of my thoughts could be sorted into a filing cabinet in the corner,

with all of my emotions in mason jars atop a night table,

to maybe take some sips from them at the end of a hard day.

But no, this is reality,

where I have no such filing cabinet, 

and there's broken glass all over the floor along with the emotions that it should hold.

I hate this overwhelming helplessness,

and I miss things making sense. 

Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace.