Baggage.

Sensitive to my environment, each change affects me like a sonic boom.
Try as I may to remain unchanged, I long to be as undetectable as a chameleon camouflaged to fit the background noise within a room.
Adaptability can be a gracious gift or a cancerous curse dependent on its antecedents.
Tension can be a landmine that exploded inside my head, the slightest exposure to it contains enough damage to poison me with lead and eradicate a lifetime of bliss.

Happiness is now only a fantasy as I have become destroyed by my apathy.
Sympathetic to others' needs though my own seem second-hand.
Misery is now the only magic carpet which I can ride through my wasteland.
Denial darkens every dream that I once had, now life is filled with despair.

Mind over matter cannot be achieved from thoughts that are comprised of idle chatter.
Anxiety eats at me as though my body is an incarcerated person's last lonely meal.
I arrived at the limit to your love, your heart became an empty vessel that refused to deliver leaving me unhindered.
I forgive you, all, a thousand times over knowing that it makes you smile though there is little room for me to remain inspired.

I forgive though every calculated move is remembered for an eternity; somehow each wound stubbornly insists on staying opened acting as a reminder that I was once broken.
My own empathy engulfs me and can sometimes be debilitating, my bleeding heart is endearing only when it's not revolting.
Each noise clamours inside me like atomic bombs and missiles dropped on me from unseen armies when I am really just desperate for silence.
As irritable as a sleeping dog barraged with children hounding it with rocks, when I blast off there's no bringing me back down to Earth.

I crave calmness like it is the antidote to the traffic jam terrorism that tries to stop me from staying afloat.
Each crash contains enough chaos to send me reeling again.
I spin aimlessly unknowing when I will stop but aware that it will destroy my sanity.
Every collision with its whiplash is accompanied with enough gasoline to create explosions that would be felt around the globe.

Every tremor can set me off as I am suddenly nearly drowned in tears from my created waterfalls.
I wear my abuse like a tattoo, one I never acquired on my own but cannot be removed.
This tattoo controls my life as I am reminded of it at the most inopportune times.
The devil's mark of scarlet letters would've been better preferred instead of this stain on my soul that can even make the worst of beautiful weather.

To discuss it or even allude to it makes me feel weak, like I seek pity yet this still remains the skyline of my humble city.
So I suffer in silence so as to not attract attention or be labelled as weak, although my mind contains many alleyways and streets that will never be seen or brought to light.
Darkness is their sole protection, some secrets, if repeated could make dynasties collapse and shut out the sun's light.