Somewhere Secret

I had a panic attack today I never experienced anxiety till this month. It’s been atleast one eveeday now. It really started with a subtle paranoia the small thought that maybe ill fail maybe my friends are lying to me. Now it’s become completely out of hand. I’m encased in lies and dangerous things and I’m afraid to make a move because I’ll fail I know I will. And all the while the spiders that spin their webbed lies that I used to call friends race on without me. I can’t blame them I never let them see my panic or know my terror.

The only thing that makes it better is writing now. But I write and it’s all horror no matter what I try nothing feels as natural as horror. So I write till I become the guy everyone knows writes horror the weird outcast the unsociable. It really doesn’t bother me much I love my writing. What bothers is that I write till I feel as though the only thing I can do right in life is write. In a way it sinks in my depression and but relieves the stress.

I’m tired now those and I’m looking to lay my head on spring softer v then this brick of a pillow. Maybe the barrel if a gun or the bottom of a bottle of pills.

I weep to think that I might never rest some place restfully. That I’ll always be as restless as I am now. I shudder In the night in the deeper and the darker my eyes are bur pools of dead things now. And I cry somewhere secret.