Switchblades

I always want to write when I feel inadequate or frustrated or lonely
but I'm not sure if it's because it helps or if thats what I've been trained to do
I scratch at paper. ink beads like blood.
and I don't feel any better.
I mean eventually I get over whatever made me mad in the first place, but wasn't that inevitable?
what am I doing?
documenting my twisted little feelings into something more tangible?
I don't think I am made to last here.
I don't think I have the stuff.
I want to go home. I don't even know where that is.
so I stay.
patch up holes where I can, mend bridges I set fire to.
and I don't feel any better.
if I had to describe how I feel right now it'd probably be cracked or bruised or something
something that says  I have some distant awareness of nothing I feel ever really being permanent.
I feel broken all the same.
same to you I'd like to cry.
I know that's some sort of catharsis, maybe after I'll know how to move my feet like I knew how all along
like maybe I had too much traction.
my cheeks are dry. and I am still cracked or bruised or something.
I wish I had someone to take up all my mantles
to catch all my torch passes
I probably do, I'm just too lazy to try
not too lazy to type
and I don't feel any better.