I used to be so at home on these pages.
Now I feel like a stranger wherever I go.
I could really come alive,
words were the only way to quench my thirst, sometimes
but often gushing, streaming
life-giving water for my deadness, a current
so straight and true I could always connect
anything that once seemed wayward, meaningless.
I would just feel whole, purged of the stains
of Haphazard emotions and Disastrous thoughts
Even now I am not free.
This writing is jilted
I always have to force myself to this page
Because I don’t want to face this pain
Not pain of the actual writing
But the catapulting piercing and raging pains of judgment
The judgements of this writing and of my soul behind it
Trying to scramble together any small thing I know about myself
I am so lost when I’m not broken
Because when I AM broken (again)
no one sees me as that anymore including myself
No more excuses for me.
Write the dead words
Pick up the pierce pulsating head
Move your weary body
Choose from your plethora of skills to combat that anxiety
Don’t ever let that negative thought win the battle
You can take the pain
You will push through this migraine
You will find a soft place to lay your head
A quiet haven for your restless mind
If you just look hard enough
I wish I could just forget, forget how to fight
So I could give myself a break for once
Sometimes I feel so trapped in my today, yesterday