An Interior Mechanism

Since childhood, as alexithymia struck my soul. I kept all my hopes a secret, hidden in a bucket of unshared dreams. I kept my soul sweet like marshmallows, but life has finally caught up with me, Like a fast car overtaking recklessly, leaving me behind in the slow lane - and I'm running out of fuel. I'm a vehicle of flashbacks from flashlights, fatigued from embracing the old, preparing for freshly brewed emotions. Yet they deprive me at every dawn, as new beginnings are always challenging. Suffocating in this silent selcouth slumber, life tries to call my bluff, when it knows, I am the master of my masquerade. My soul pleads with fate to usher me with belief, but I can see death at my doorstep, creating intrusive insecurities like termites, eating away at branches of my sanity, feeding upon my ordained Orphic glory. Emotions are an interior mechanism, so many remain fooled by my exterior, but I'm tired of searching for salvation. You who claim to love me, gift me a scented candle made with your hands, so its sentimental scent can bring me peace. Take me to a place without a name, without a label, without judgment - without suffering. Unchain me from jeapordising January jitters. Free me from meandering in misty meadows, which have misplaced me in foggy morning sunshine - bring me clarity. These are not random thoughts, random poems, because my ink is tired from trying to find new metaphors, to supplement an abundance of alliterations, portraying humble happy horizons. Love can be a false emotion, when we yearn for reciprocal ravishing redamancy, but when was love ever equal or even fair? I have no resolutions, just to breathe with ease. Sometimes love's presence made me feel aesthetic, but sometimes a badly drawn self portrait. You can stay or leave, but do come back, hold on, but not too tight that it chains my wings. When I ascend, please, miss me, so my spirit flies back to you. Can you not see the irony? We accumulate many reasons to die, but search for only one reason to live. Ask yourself which oxymoron are you? Dying to live or living to die? *Alexithymia A person's inability to recognise or describe ones own emotions * Redamancy a love returned in full; an act of loving the one who loves you; the act of loving in return