In Mind - January 17th
In Mind - January 17th mental illness stories
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muffinsaya
muffinsaya Teen w/ a headache— pfp by LavenderTowne
Autoplay OFF   •   10 months ago
For the ones in the frost and snowfall,
Late to rise along with the cry of the rooster
but never early to fall with the apple from the tree
Hiding behind a veil of shimmering mists
....

In Mind - January 17th

For the ones in the frost and snowfall,

Late to rise along with the cry of the rooster

but never early to fall with the apple from the tree

Hiding behind a veil of shimmering mists

Standing, frozen, a dark silhouette against the wind

Even in birthing spring, they remain a sculpture,

a deer in the headlights, captured in rust and steel

The ghost of neither past, present, or future

Sinking deeper into their own grave of familiar corpses,

the shadows stealing away every gasp

A cradle made of tears and hazy smiles

I want to tell them, oh I want to tell them

For the ones in blooming green and breeze,

While the pollen grows thicker, encasing every victim

and while the rain surges beneath the ninth cloud

The lakes reflect lies upon lies upon lies upon lies

The bees brushing past the quiet bouquets

The irritation and itch in the mind,

following behind like a veiled shadow

The bulb of the shining sun blooming past peaks,

spilling into the bottomless ocean

A constant routine of again and again

No escape from the millions of possibilities

I want to tell them, oh I want to tell them

For the ones on glassy beaches and blazing sun

Eyes only displaying overcast skies blocking out the rays

Desert lilies covered in illusions of dew and nectar

Blurring images in the crossfire of a heat haze

A distant stranger you once knew so, so well

Fleeting glimpses of butterflies fluttering past,

never able to keep sight of them

A thousand trampolines all at once

bouncing from each one, going, going, gone

But missing every step of the way

I want to tell them, oh I want to tell them

For the ones in piles of flickering flames

Dying leaves all around, falling against stiff blades and cold concrete

Unable to hold back against every shift in the breeze

Seen as useless artifacts, easy to wither

But there are so many, in fact, so many

Painting a canvas with colors of all kinds

no matter how many mistakes are made with each brushstroke

things will start new, start fresh, on a new canvas

I want to tell them, oh I want to tell them

It’s okay to be this way.

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