weak.

The weather is perfect. It feels still, trapped in time until a soft breeze floats past my cheek. Inside the building behind me, there is a rageing war. It's everything I've wanted since I knew the definition of dream. Since I could spell out perfection with my lips. But more and more each day I find this once calming, strong foundation is crumbling. I am noticing patterns and cricles I've never known before - or never wanted to acknowledge. The cracks crawl around corners, binded by some wild fusion of rage and hopelessness. There are holes beneath my feet. Places that once leant me their backs of support are now depleted to sorry grey pebbles. I have half a mind to get off this ground, past the dead potential, rotten words that have littered this lawn. I'll step onto green, cold, new ground...and never ever look back. My mind is plauged with anxiety. Like I'm waiting for something, an approach of some sort. When will I find peace in myself to rest my head at night? When will my search for searches end.