Missing Pieces

Funny how one day I wake up.
The only thing I wanna do…
Pick my pencil up.
Scribble a piece.

Funny how the only thing I wanna think about.
The words on my paper.
The only thing I wanna hear.
The sound of the pencil on the paper.
The only thing I wanna feel is the intimacy between the two.

My hand scribbling hard.
Back and forth
On my wide-spread diary
My pulse pumping hard.
Rubbing the middle away.
Clearing possible doubts for the urge to kick in.
Sucking in the mood.
Reviving my pleasure.
Screaming out my motivation.
Wetting my lips,
Licking my finger to turn the page for another piece.

Funny how sometimes this is all gone.
All I have is a dream.
A fantasy.
Mostly ends up making up fallacies.
The urge is gone.
No more screaming.
Orgasms are like grass on a rock.
All I want is lock myself.
Get a hideout.
Sympathize with myself.
Cry my heart out trying to find ways to please everyone.

Too much pressure.
Too much to take in.
Well,
It’s probably just an excuse
But doesn’t it make some sense?
I mean,
We all get to our breaking points.
We all feel like we can do better than we currently do.
We all drop pieces of our own hearts and then trynna look for something to blame
Or someone else for that matter.
The scars come at you.
Try to hide but the more you conceal,
The more you expose.
And before you realize.
You were so caught up with your supposedly deadass.
That you lost the ability you once had.
Still have.
The demon in you haunting you.
The monster inside you wanting to unleash.
But you push all this away and try to think you could turn back time.

But you were warned
Now you want to justify your actions.
But you can’t
You forget that you can tear pages from a good book
But that won’t seal the book’s existence.
You’ll always find the cut outs
Fill in your blanks
Pick up your pieces.
Head out and kill it ?