Life In Distortion Poem by Helena Chang

Life hunts me, again and again and again and again. Some people are born bearing the gift of analytical minds. I am one of them.

Thoughts are the source of the fears. If you are not strong enough to tame it, it will engulf you as a whole. The sharp teeth tear you up during the day, and through the night.

It leans against you, tighter and tighter and tighter and tighter. Struggling is fruitless. Struggling is the source of your pain, of your useless denial of its dictatorship and deadly allurement.

You drown, you suffocate, you burst with tears, you cry out loud without making a sound.

Then the spring creeps in, you see the wild filed covered with dandelion, through the little window of your prison chamber.