I Can’t Continue Doing This Alone

Maybe I need a dog.
Maybe I need a boyfriend.
Maybe I need a friend who will just hold my hand.

Because I have been losing my shit,
And I have become complacent about it,
To the point where I cannot begin to explain it.

I wake up every day and do what I have to do to get by,
Serving the single purpose of avoiding the chance to die,
And having this overwhelming feeling to breakdown and cry.

Not because I think my life is a waste,
Since I would be dead already if that were the case,
But because I am frustrated with this place.

I am frustrated that I can’t seem to stop smoking,
And I hate that a hobby of mine is toking,
That is pushed to the point where I have become broken.

I can’t seem to function without the release,
I find in the secrets that I consistently keep,
Hiding the fact that I am struggling and preventing me from taking a leap.

Because I have faith in my abilities,
And I have confidence in my reality,
That I have the power to change everything about me.

But the real question is —
Do I want to change this?
Or am I satisfied with my shit?

Is this life something to complain about?
Or something that motivates me to shout out?
And claim everything to which I am devote?

Because this struggle has made me who I am,
And I have never allowed anyone to hold my hand,
Since growth is something only I can accomplish in the end.

Which leaves me to question,
The complaints that I purge with this pen,
And the manner in which I approach this life again.

Do I need someone to hold my hand?
Or can I do this independently that way I always have?
And why do I feel shame in admitting that I can?

Why do I feel pressure to have a life that is “complete”?
And why can I not deny this secret that I keep?
How can I suppress this thought that does not allow me to sleep?

That I am missing a piece of this life,
And that that piece could lessen my strife,
If I only allowed myself to be open to my own advice.

If only I stop fighting this change,
And stop feeling like I am deranged,
In order to accept that I am struggling through this pain.

And the one thing that might help,
Would be if I removed myself from the isolation shelf,
And accept that I desperately want someone other than me to support myself.


Phases Of Me

I used to be fun when I was concerned about no one.
I used to be cool when I acted like a fool.
I used to be hot with a drug induced gaunt.
And I used to think that my acts of detriment were something to flaunt.

I could have cared less about consequences,
And I always operated on the defensive.
I was prone to promiscuity,
And I was drawn to pessimistic personalities.
I embraced a lack of control,
And I thought there was nothing that I could not endure.

But it was the foolishness of my youth,
And the denial I held as truth,
That led me to live life that way,
And keep all my emotions at bay.
Because I was numb,
And doing anything to escape the release of a gun,
Pointed at my brain,
To stop the pressure of feeling insane.
Because I could not bear what life had thrown at me,
And I was struggling more than I was able to see,
Through my drug induced haze
And this part of life that I thought was just a phase,
Until it became a piece of who I am,
And I began to no longer recognize my own hand —
That instinctively reached for a bottle,
And brushed off any attempts to be coddled,
So that I could struggle through this alone,
And never find a place I could call home.
Because nothing can replace that sacred place,
And nothing can be what I used to see,
Life has changed permanently,
And I am in too much denial to let that be.
So I drank away my thoughts,
And I pushed aside my regrets,
Until there was nothing left but my confusion,
About how I got here,
And how I lost track of everything I used to hold dear.

I used to be driven and took nothing forgiven.
I used to have hope when I looked at the full scope.
I used to be lost in a desire to explore my own thoughts.
And I used to think that by this day I would be living my life with love and not dismay.

Choosing A Life Of Struggle

Some days I wonder about the life I could have had.
I wonder if it would have held less struggle and less trouble.
Some days I wonder about the choices I have made.
I ponder if they were actually all for the better,
When I felt like I was cornered by the worse.
I remember the feeling to vividly —
So desperate and helpless,
So consumed by my own thoughts that I was hopeless,
For any hint of change,
Or any inkling that I am not deranged.
I would stare at myself for hours,
Yet always see a lack of power,
Replaced by a state of exhaustion,
Which made me realize that I am nothing more than human.
I knew that it was within my power to change,
But I would always wake to a feeling of pain,
One that ran deep and disrupted my attempts at sleep,
So that I was never satisfied,
And I was tortured by the secrets that I keep —
That I am alright with being a lazy piece of shit,
And I strive to become complacent.
That I smoke every day,
In an effort to keep my emotions at bay.
That I am satisfied with an existence that is mundane,
Because it is something that is easy to sustain.
And I am tired of putting forth an effort,
Exhausted by my lack of cohorts,
Disappointed by my slow train of progress,
And notice that often I digress,
To avoid the truth that is staring me so blankly in the face,
And recognize that this is the case.
Because it is days like today that I cannot avoid,
When I wake up and am left feeling devoid,
Of any motivation to continue,
And an overwhelming confusion about what I have been through.
It is mornings like this that I begin to remiss,
About the life I began with such hope and promise,
And the choices I made that led me away from this.
I reflect deeply on the life I could have made,
If I allowed myself to wander that way.
I could have had a steady boyfriend,
And I could have held down a six-figure job,
I could have my own dog,
And I could have become satisfied with a stable reality,
I could have nothing left to complain about but me.
Because I am the reason that I am left unsatisfied,
And I am my own source of torture that makes me cry.
I am the only one who felt like they were dying inside,
As I attempted to live a life that was normalized.

Sedentary Change

I am afraid of this moment —
When my pen hits the paper and I except words to flow out of me.
I am afraid that I won’t be able to follow through,
And I am afraid that I have nothing to offer of value.
I am worried that I will become distracted,
And that my words will not actually sink in.
Because I can’t seem to focus these days,
And I can’t seem to care about anything I pick up.
I want to want progress,
And I need to need busyness,
But is it really all serving me in the end?
This transformation process is frustrating and tedious,
And I am losing motivation to put my best foot forward.
I am losing faith that I have the strength to continue,
And I am becoming exhausted by my never ending task list.
I wake up every day and I am confused as to how I got here,
And I know that that confusion will only grow.
Because I know that this struggle is far from over.
And I know that there is no place for me to seek cover.
This is the path I am always destined to walk down.
I will always be looking for more.
And that is something I will never be able to ignore.
But I can feel that this struggle is real,
And it is challenging everything I thought I held dear.
It is making me question my place,
And leading me to hate my own face,
Because it is no longer one that I recognize,
And its look of confusion is leading me to despise,
All the thoughts that I could actually rise,
Above it all and never fall back,
To the place I regret ever being at all,
and the depths to which I know how to fall.
Because I despise that side of weakness,
And I am ashamed of this overwhelming sense of bleakness,
When I have so much opportunity placed in front of me,
And I refuse to be what it needs me to be.
Because I am weak and I am human,
And I’d rather die in this self-imposed gloom,
Then try to see the light in my escape,
And have faith in the moving on to a new place.
So today I am afraid of my pen,
But tomorrow will only repeat itself again,
If I continue to refuse to be open,
And accept that change is not an act of being broken,
But instead an opportunity to become outspoken,
A chance to change the person I am,
And a chance to begin again.
But I am afraid of that hope,
And I am afraid that this chance,
Will disappear as quickly and unexpectedly as it came,
And I will be left with nothing to retain,
Putting myself back at square one,
And wondering if this transformation is something that ever even begun.

Am I Worth Having & Holding?

Yesterday I texted my crush,
And this morning I woke up crushed,
Because I never received a reply,
And the rejection was too overwhelming to deny,
I never thought that I was not something to be desired,
So rejection was something I did not considered.
My perplextion ran deep as I laid my head down to sleep,
Wondering if I was even desirable,
Or instead something to keep at a distance,
Someone who provided too much resistance,
As a woman who can not be claimed,
And a spirit that cannot be tamed.
So instead I will be swallowed up by my own flames,
In a burning pile of frustration and shame,
Never allowing myself to be claimed,
And never seeking the appropriate kind of fame,
The kind in which I am known as a goddess,
And the kind of woman who will accept nothing less.
But this morning I question my ability to receive,
The kind of love and attention that I so obviously need.
Is there really someone out there for me?
Or is lonely the state I am destined to be?
I wonder why I even put myself out there to be rejected,
And why I did not just become a shut-in,
Safe from the world and its interactions,
Guarded by my own destruction.
I wonder why I even continue on with playing this game,
And if the attachment I am seeking is in vain,
Because every man who gets to know me discovers that I am insane.
Maybe I am more trouble than I am worth,
And maybe I was never meant to walk this earth,
Hand in hand with a loving man,
Maybe I am destined to be alone,
Day by day with nothing left to say,
Or even a willingness to complain,
About the state that I got myself into,
And all the options I refused to choose.
Because I can only blame myself,
And it has nothing to do with the men I pursue,
And everything to do with the way I presume,
That I am too good to be touched,
And I am too free to be tied down,
This life is too short to be wasted,
And I refuse to be complacent.
I could be attached if I wanted to,
But that is something I can not yet choose,
Because I wasn’t looking and I wasn’t searching,
And I did not think that it was worth learning,
How to please a variety of men,
And hope that eventually one might take me in,
To call me his own and raise me like a pet,
So that I can claim I am something worth being kept.

“The End”

I am tired of repeating the same questions over again,
And I am growing tired with my relationship with this pen,
It doesn’t allow me to sleep and it doesn’t allow me to escape,
Instead it only digs me further into this state,
A place of denial and a place of trial,
Appearing to be on loop for me no matter how hard I try,
Encouraging me to resonate with this feeling of unrest from which I try to hide.
I have paired my pen with actions of detriment,
And I stay simultaneously stay stoned for the cause of my petulance.
I can’t seem to shake this sense of denial,
And I wake to a unshakable feeling of desire,
To be someone else completely,
And forget the place that I have chosen to be,
Because I am no longer satisfied with just being me,
And that is plain enough for anyone to see —
Except for me.
Because I keep my life on an infinite loop,
Of frustration and contradiction and I always seem to dig my heels in,
And resist this change and refute my progress,
So that I am left with nothing but a desire to have less,
Less of a mind and less of a conscious,
Less of a feeling that life is something I’ve missed,
Less of a guilt that I could do more with my life,
Less of a focus on nothing less than strife.
I want to struggle and I want to complain,
And I want to do it all in vain,
Because all I seem to want to brag about is my inability to relate to this life that was handed to me,
And the reflection in the mirror that I continue to see.
I never truly want to be satisfied,
And the escape that I am truly seeking is to die,
To find the release that I have been looking for,
And finally be able to turn around and close the door,
To this life that has brought so much struggle,
And the way it continues to pull me through the muddle.
I am seeking an end,
And I am craving a friend,
And it only continues to become more apparent the longer I wield this pen.

A Beautiful Disaster

Fuck you, you beautiful disaster.
And fuck this already played out tragedy.
Fuck —
You make my heart break every time I see you.
This is something that is never meant to be,
But you are the only face that I ever crave to see.
You are the person I want to claim as my own,
And you are the man who’s arm I strive to be on.
I want to show you off,
Because you make me shine when I am with you,
But that was never really the issue.
You are my nemesis,
Yet also the only face I crave to kiss.
You are the source of the frustration that only builds,
And the torture it is putting me through kills,
Making me wonder if you are even worth this thrill,
And the feeling of being light as air.
I wonder how I built this addiction to your sense of being,
And I ponder how you so easily have me keyed in.
But I know the answer I am seeking because it is so plain to see,
That I am in awe of your wild ways,
And I could get lost in you for days,
With no end in sight,
Until we reach an inevitable fight.
Because we cannot avoid our true natures forever,
And one day we will look up and realize that this is all just a beautiful disaster,
Destined to be a life long struggle —
Because you will never change and I will never concede,
And neither one of us will ever be what the other truly needs.
Because we can’t, and we refuse to be, anything but easy.
But that is what makes me pursue this disaster all the same.
You are my shitty safe space,
And the dream that I never thought I would actually face.
I am the one who said no,
And the reminder of the hold you are attempting to let go.
Despite us being so beautiful together,
And despite your keen blue eyes and the shameless tattoos that cover your thighs,
In spite of the way you make me ache,
And in spite of this feeling that I cannot seem to shake,
I know and you know,
There is just one way for this to go —
Down the path of desire and across the fields of undeniable fire,
Spinning and turning and losing control,
Until we manifest this beautiful landscape of disaster.

Move Fast

I try to keep up, but I always seem to be falling behind my own life. I try to live in the moment, but there is something in me that will not allow it completely. I try to be excited about my accomplishments, but there is something in me that will not accept full credit for my actions. I wish that I could brag about what I have done and where I have been. I wish that I was the type of person who accepted more credit than they should receive and I want to boast about what I have experienced. I wish that I had a list of defense for when I am hypercritical and I need to remind myself that I have done much with my young life already. I wish that I could stand confidently in the knowledge of who I am and where I want to go.

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A Glimpse of Myself

I’m moving too fast and can’t seem to slow down.
I’ve lost control in the best kind of way and I am running with the results.
I no longer recognize the person I appear to be and stare into the mirror looking for answers I will never be able to see.
Because my reflection doesn’t show the shift in my nature,
And I will not be able to see my change in value so shallowly.
My surface does not reflect the growth that I have been building for years,
And it cannot explain my change in personality.
I must look deeper than a mirror to see what is happening,
But I can’t seem to find the background that will properly illuminate my nature.
I don’t recognize the experiences that have changed me,
Because I am in denial that complete change is ever truly possibly.
I am cursed to forever see myself as that timid little girl,
The one who was never willing to speak her mind,
And shied away from any form of a spotlight,
The little girl who was afraid of everything and nothing,
Holding a never ending supply of dreams and thoughts,
Destined to rattle around in her head versus being expressed instead.
But I am no longer that little girl whether I like it or not,
And I cannot continue on with out stopping for the thought,
That I was never as cursed as I felt I might be,
And change and growth was always building within me.
I always possessed this side I do not recognize,
I just kept it buried deep inside —
Because I was afraid of the truth and I was terrified of my potential,
And I allowed my actions to instead be detrimental.
I cut myself down and I criticized my actions,
To point that nothing ever seemed worth practice,
Because I saw my potential for failure all along,
And never accepted anything less than perfection in my execution,
Leaving me to never recognize the progress I am still making.
It has left me wondering where I stand now and never seeing the steps I took to get here.
I abandoned myself years ago,
And now I am trying to recognize the person I have become,
I stare at this stranger in the mirror,
And I wonder where they have been all of these years.
Where did they come from?
And how did I not recognize their presence by my side?
When did they sneak up on me?
And when did I lose the person I once knew myself to be?
How did this all happen so quickly?
I am too concerned with other’s perceptions,
To the point that I can no longer claim my own reflection.
I recognize the body I am standing in,
And I am familiar with the way that it moves,
I know my voice when I speak,
But I also know that there are countless secrets that I keep.
And slowly and surely they are escaping in confidence,
Piece by piece they are showing on my face,
Moment by moment I embody the pressure,
And thought after thought leads me to believe that this is for the better.
I am tired of the mask I have worn since my youth,
And I am ready to finally have the courage to speak my truth,
About this life and the experiences it has held for me,
And the person that I have always wanted to be —
One who is strong and confident,
And speaks with an air of intelligence,
One who is bold and never bashful,
And seeks out experiences that hold potential,
Someone who is proud of what they have accomplished,
Yet always has energy for more.
Because I no longer recognize that girl I once was,
And I want to find the person I will be someday,
But for today I will start with where I stand now,
And I will applaud myself for getting here somehow.

Do I Know You?

I’m not sure why I do this anymore. I don’t understand what inside of me allows it to happen despite knowing that it is detrimental to my health. And I’m not sure why I even drive myself to feel guilt about it anymore, because it is something that I am so obviously against changing. I have told myself for years that I don’t need this in my life, but there is something in me that won’t allow its release from my clutch. There is an overwhelming part of me that is ashamed of my habit and seeks to hide the truth of how I operate from others, but there is an instinctual part of me that wants to forever keep this dirty secret. The truth is that it is no secret at all and I wear my brand boldly in the face of those who don’t know me. With the anonymous mask of being another face in the crowd that no one recognizes, I practice my habits freely and detrimentally. Without the guilt of being known as someone with promise and potential, I am free to indulge in the practices that make me less capable. To the passing stranger I am just another person practicing bad habits, but to anyone who knows me I am killing myself slowly and deliberately. The reflection in my mirror does not show the truth of what I am putting myself through. It does not reflect the mental torture I wake up with. And it does not show me that there is something more to me to be valued. What is doesn’t show is my mind. I can see that I am a healthy looking twenty-seven year old with physical features that are applauded in beauty magazines. I see that I am skinny and frail with just a thin layer of muscle and strength to keep it all together. And I plainly see that I am just human. What I can’t see it the tar that fills my lungs and the damage I have inflicted on my liver. In my reflection I can’t see the person I am with a spliff in my hand constantly and a mind that is being under used. I can’t see the mind that I know to be strong and the heart that dares to dream. My reflection fails to show me the struggle I am experiencing internally, and proves to me that I am simply just another human.┬áSo as I look myself in the mirror this morning, I wonder who is this person looking back at me? How did they obtain my face? And is this someone I can truly trust? Who have I become? And how did I age so quickly? Because in my eyes I am still just the timid age of five, mute and observant, taking in all the life threw in my face. I am just a girl who is looking for someone to hold my hand while I cross the street into new territory. And I am just a child who is lost and searching for a place to call my own in this world. I don’t believe that I am the woman who is looking back at me in the mirror. And I don’t feel like I embody this aging body. I can’t see myself as a tall, sexy woman when I feel so very much like a still maturing child. When did my hair get so long? And when did I start needing makeup to cover bags under my eyes? Since when did I feel that I could wear lingerie? And why is my closet full of anything but princess costumes? When did I receive so much responsibility that it makes my shoulders visibly sag with the weight? And how have I aged into this crippled old woman? I don’t recognize the person I see myself to be, and I don’t see the same image that others catch of me. I don’t understand the impression I make on others and I wish that I didn’t make any impression at all, because I can’t explain where the person they see comes from. Because I don’t know who they even see in the first place.