Caged.

The pack is split.
It's torn.
It's worn.
And it's only just, started to dawn.
On me.
I'm no longer, safe and sound.
So alone, to the moon I howl.
Hoping to hear some response.
A friendly sound, but they're all gone.
Moving, lost, or just plain left.
I've never felt, how I fret.
Now.
These clouds are dark.
And the howl's a lonely bark.
A growl, a snarl, at those I know.
No friendly love, nothing to show.
Even now, I sit and type.
I know I'll be up all night.
Prowling around this room again.
Trying to just quench the pain.
My hackles up, my head set low.
Maybe it's my turn to go.

I'll rip my heart from my chest.
Maybe it's best.
When I feel so depressed.
And I feel like less.
Than nothing.
The way I'm shoving.
My walls up agian.
To heal the pain.
Or conceal the faint.
Heart beet.
Of the wolf that sleeps.
Waiting to burst forth.
With full force.
And take it's course.
Of action.
No longer be a fraction.
But be the whole being of my soul.
Fur ripples in the cold.
Wind which blows.
The snow.
Over my toes.
Shed the skin.
The one that I'm in.
No longer so thin.
Now my muscle's growing.
And I don't mean the ones, that you flex on your arms.
I mean my heart.
It's fibre now tough.
Even it's beet's rough.

here, I am invading

in incognito, i feel, i can be real.
it could be said, that, perhaps, instead,
of a mask of the occasion,  it acts, as a mask, of deep flush 'reality'
(What a horrible word, 'Reality' is. What a horrible word it can be).
is it possible, perhaps
to be existential
to be nihilistic,
and not to take upon,
those great pessimisms that hold
with existential nihilism,
to be sad,
but hold of the worse,
to hold out,
till you can again think of flighting fancies.
As so easily sways the mind on the corporal.
On the day.
I hope.
And in knowing that hope that is nestled inside the very centre of my cerebral,
fluttering it's wings, or tensing, just for the moment of a flutter,
It shivers of the cold tendrils of despair, and warms the heart a little,
just a little, but enough.

Love it when I'm fine and flying high.
And then some words, shoot me out the sky.
I crash land.
And splash in the sand.
Slash with my hand.
Not left with a strand.
Of hope.
So I moap.
And my throat.
Grows tight.
This just might.
Be the last night.
I give up the fight.
Wont take flight.
Yes, oh, right.
Leave me here.
Lying on the ground.
Don't feel sad.
My heart don't pound.
It's better to be cold, and feel nothing.
Than get hopes up, but never win.
-H

These thoughts in my head go round and round.
What if it's wrong, what they found?
What if it's more than a cyst.
What if I, get added to the list.
And Death.
With his breath.
Like ice on my neck.
Comes calling again.
And I'm falling.
To the same.
Feelings of pain.
I'm going to get a second opinion.